It's Over
by Autobot Chromia
Summary: In response to a challenge by missBAMF on KS-arc. When a mission goes horribly wrong and Spock is removed from Starfleet, Jim must look ahead at a life without his First Officer. Meanwhile, Spock's injury leaves him heavily dependent on what family he has left, as his father is too busy to help he must look to his mother's side. His mother's heavily xenophobic side of the family.
1. Chapter 1

_It's Over_

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Standing still, eyes glazzed over and a feeling of aloof, disoriented _wrongness_ stabbed him through the heart, Jim realized he'd heard the words "It's over" far too often.

The first time would have been when he was twelve years old in High School and had landed himself his first girlfriend. Susie Martin had been the hottest thing to walk the halls of middle school, tight jeans and equally tight top revealing those mini, almost non-existant curves of the twelve-year-old body. Strawberry blonde with green eyes and a surplus of freckles over the nose of that pale white skin, Jim had thought he'd known beauty.

That was, until eighth grade rolled around and Susie started cheerleading. She'd fallen for the next big thing on the football team, the sports team Jim hadn't been able to get on. Her green eyes had been biting, those thin, pink lips venomous as she spat, _"It's over, Jim."_

Then the next five or six girlfriends had somehow ended up the same way. One by one, each one fell head over heels for something bigger, stronger, bulkier, or cuter than Jim Kirk. And, Jim hadn't even known that the last one was possible.

After being dumped about ten times (he'd lost count), when ninth grade came about, Jim found himself on a colony planet learning the facts of life. Plant life, that is. How wheat was planted, how is was cared for, how it grew, how it was to be harvested, and how humans became sick from blight infested grainage. It was like the Irish Potato Famine on steroids, people either falling sick and dying from ingesting the damp-poisoned grain or simply starving to death.

Jim had never realized how much was made from a single stalk of golden, black and blighted wheat until all that had come from it was withheld from him. Governor Kodos had been a nightmare, one that Jim resolved to never think about again. Six months he had starved on that planet, dodging bullets or fungus until ships came. Then had come the counselors, visiting people before they had even been disconnected from nutrition intravenous lines. "_It's done; it's all over, now. You're all right."_

Another time hadn't even pertained to Jim, but it had still hurt from a distance. It was a well-known fact around the Starship _Enterprise_ that Spock and Uhura were a thing. Everybody knew, except Jim who simply didn't care, not to mess with Spock's gal and not to flirt with Uhura's Vulcan. Nobody could read the tense lines between them growing thicker and thicker every day. Even when he had bemoaned to the female how much he wanted to rip off Spock's bangs and revealed that they were arguing did anyone suspect anything. Not when they had seemingly reconciled on the way to the Klingon planet, did he ever expect to run into hushed tones on the observation deck.

_"It's over, Spock_." Uhura had hissed beneath her breath. _"I've tried Spock, really, but this just isn't working between us." _Tears marred her soft, coffee-colored skin and the whites of her eyes were streaked with red.

Spock hadn't replied, and Jim was slightly happy he hadn't. He had accidentally heard too much as it was, and had slunk away before he was discovered.

Now, once again, the little phrase didn't even have anything to do with him, but it hurt even worse than overhearing his best friend and his only girlfriend ever breaking up. This time, it was the blue eyes of Dr. McCoy meeting his, trying his darndest to hold the stare.

"It's over, Jim. There's nothing more I can do."

It hadn't even looked like that bad an injury. Sure, there had been blood and panic, but it hadn't even _looked_ that horrible. As it turned out, in an ironic turn of events, it had been what he hadn't seen that was the worst off.

Spock had been injured on the recent exploration of an M-charted planet. The peoples of that planet had been Pre-warp, but that didn't necessarily mean that they were technologically impaired. They didn't throw sticks or rocks or spears, and they were far above the age of stone knives and bear skins. In fact, unlike Earth that had graduated from spears to gunpowder, they had skipped over gunpowder and lead to phasers and photons. The planet Omiceti II didn't have the necessary minerals to create gunpowder or the right metals for bullets. Instead, they had the perfect crystals for lasers and phasers. And, obviously, without stun.

That blast of red should have been for him. That beam should have spread his blood on the ground instead of the forest green that had pooled out beneath the Vulcan's head. The phaser hadn't disrupted his molecules, and it hadn't dispersed his atoms into nothingness. Instead, it had singed and eaten a hole through the side of Spock's frontal lobe.

Jim scrubbed at his nose, trying to remove the sent of burnt hair and blood from his nostrils. Swallowing, he tried to figure out what to say next. "You-you mean he's-"

"Lordy, no!" McCoy exclaimed, eyes widening in realization as he quickly cut the blonde off. "He's not dying, Jim. He's... he's done. With 'Fleet." The doctor sighed, steely blue eyes falling to the white, linoleum floors of the sickbay and rubbed two fingers over his tired eyes. "We've done all we could, Jim, but it's just not good enough."

"Can't he just meditate this out?" Jim asked, wondering if that tone in his voice was whining or pleading.

McCoy squinted with one eye, cocking his head to the left. "Trance, you mean?" At Jim's persistent nod, he sighed again. "No, Jim, he can't. He can't even start a healing trance let alone hold one for the length he'd need to heal his mind."

"What about a Vulcan healer?" Jim tried next.

"So that he could tell us the same damned thing we already know?" Bones snorted. "It's _over_, Jim! That phaser blast went right through his head and into his God-damned brain. Thank heavens Vulcan brains are as weird as the rest of their anatomy, or we'd be dealing with mental retardation, or _worse_."

"Bones."

The doctor waved a hand, letting the appendage flop about limply. "Shut up and lemme finish. You see, where it hit, that's where Vulcans keep the telepathic parts of their brains. We were able to save some of it, but if he gets any kind of mind powers back, he'll probably be empathetic at best."

"Like a Betazoid." Jim murmured to himself, eyes lowering. _Shit_, this couldn't be happening. "What about shielding?"

Bones shrugged, shoulders falling as loosely as his hand. "I'm not a mind reader, Jimbo. Most of this is coming from M'Benga as it is. I just stitched where he told me to stick and clamped where he told me to clamp. God," the doctor scoffed, "I've never felt so frickin' helpless during a surgery."

Jim couldn't answer that, he was afraid he'd say something he might regret. "Where is Dr. M'Benga?" he asked instead. "I didn't see him coming in."

"Probably asleep. Ten hours of surgery is no picnic." McCoy snorted, giving in and rubbing his eye with a closed fist and yawning widely. "That's where I'm headin' now that you're here. Knew ya wouldn't let me get a wink of shut-eye without some kind of explenation."

"Damn straight." Jim replied, trying to grin but failing. He rubbed his thumb against his index, whetting his lips. "Bones, can I... Can I see him?"

Bones sighed, hesitating only a moment. He could argue with the young, brilliant captain until he sprouted pointy ears, the end results would still be the same. "He's real weak, Jim. It's not pretty, and-"

"Bones, he... he pushed me away." electric blue eyes shifted downwards. "If he hadn't, I would have been the one hit. I- He may not look good now, but he sure as hell didn't look good bleeding and dead on the ground."

"He's not dead." Bones reinstated gently, scrubbing his face tiredly. "All righ'. It's against my better judgment, but a quick look. You got that? _Quick_."

Jim nodded. "Got it."

It was a short walk to the isolation room, used more for privacy than quarantine in this case. Plus, being a Vulcan and Spock's systems already in shock, the temperature needed to be much higher than what any human would call comfortable. In-patients in the regular Sickbay room would quickly succumb to complaining about the heat, if not dehydration; and McCoy's medical staff wouldn't take too kindly to 160 degrees Fahrenheit, either.

The door whooshed open with a hydraulic hiss, clicking away within the walls on either side. Heat blew up into Jim's face like warm air from a greenhouse but lacking any kind of humidity. It was a dry, heavy heat that sucked the liquid from his eyeballs and made his scalp tingle.

"I can see why you want to make this quick." Jim joked weakly, fanning himself with the collar of his shirt, already sticking to his body.

McCoy didn't look at him as he replied, quickly checking over readings and statistics. "Believe me, it's more for him than for you." He glanced up, eyeing Jim standing in the doorway. "Well, for God's sake, get in and close the door before you let a draft in."

Jim moved, but it wasn't under his own power. He felt numb - body, mind, and soul - as he slowly gravitated towards the lone medical berth. Pale, green tinged hands lay lax over the white, thick medical sheets, I.V lines attached to veins in the hands and crocks of his arm. A single diode decorated Spock's forehead, close to the white bandage taped over the side of his head. Even now, hours after the accident, the dressing was slowly seeping green through all its layers of bandages.

Jim knew pale. He'd seen people pale for all sorts of things. Some got woozy over blood and gashes and their own faces would drain of blood. Others still got jittery over space and spaceflight; Jim had watched Bones' white face grow whiter the first time they hit turbulence.

Spock, though, was a whole different type of pale altogether. His face boarded between paper, ghost, and sheet, the greenish-blue veins in his face and hands and arms standing out. Jim was thankful he couldn't see the mouth, no doubt as thin and lacking pigmentation as the rest of his face. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth, whooshing and hissing methodically as Spock was slowly forced breathed.

Jim blinked harshly against a sudden sting in his eyes, a droning in his ear startling him as Bones seemed to have been talking.

"Looks like we got him at a good time." Bones was saying, finished with checking the monitors and now looking at the readings above the biobed. His voice was stong and loud as he prattled on, speaking more to the bedridden than the standing. "He's awake, Jim. Why don't you come over and talk a bit? I'm sure Spock'd be glad for the company."

Hesitantly, Jim stepped closer to the bed. Each step made the pronounced veins stick out even more, the fragile pallor of Spock's skin take on a new level of porcelain, and revealed the Vulcan's chocolate-brown eyes to be closed. Even the eyelids seemed too weak, somewhere between droopy and sealed shut.

"How can you tell?" Jim asked, voice seemingly small in the room. "He looks asleep to me."

The doctor's fingernail rapped against the readings above the bed. "'Cause he's listening in on us. Heartrate picked up the moment he heard ya." Bones stated, hissing a, "Go figure", under his breath Jim didn't quite catch.

Jim licked his dry lips, doing little as the hot room simply dried them out again. "Umm..." he breathed, eyes shifting between the heartbeat monitor and the still face. "Hey, Spock. How... how you feeling?" Jim flinched, McCoy looking like he would kick Jim if the man didn't do it himself. _'Course he isn't going to answer, you dumbass._ "Sorry 'bout that... I mean, that was a stupid question, after all. You probably feel like shit. Look like it, too."

Dang, was he ever screwing this up. What could he say to fix this? Anything he tried would only come out a bumbling mess with a meaning lost in translation. The translation of Jim Kirk to regular Standard was a very iffy, loose, hard to translate language. It usually involved a lot of sarcasm, profanities, a shout or two, some rambling, and it never came out in perfect, chronological order. Jim took a deep breath, looking at the tips of his black, polished boots.

"Thank you." he whispered quietly. "I- If you hadn't taken that shot... I don't think I'd be here right now trying to figure out what to say. It was a stupid move, mind you, and where is the logic in taking the shot for somebody else?" He sucked in another deep breath, "But... thanks anyway."

Maybe he would have said more. Most likely, he would have just kept standing there looking like a doe in the headlights and looking like the most dejected little child in all the world. A hand touched his shoulder, light but strong and still. "Com'on." the drawl drew out. "I'm tired and Spock needs to rest."

"I could stay with him." Jim suggested, not even bothering to turn and face the good doctor.

"He's asleep." Bones pointed towards the biobed readings. "Started fading while you were talkin'. But," he added, leading the younger man towards the door, "I'm pretty sure he heard what he needed to."

That firm hand on his shoulder leading him away couldn't keep his neck from craning around and a sigh leaving his lips. "Yeah," Jim breathed, "I hope so."

* * *

><p>It had been easy pulling into spacedock, extended shore leave on earth for the humans and non-earth beings alike. It had been easy receiving orders from HQ, signing Spock's decommissioning papers, and watching as the unconscious being was put through decontamination beams and sterile masks just to beam him down to the hospital.<p>

It was easy, in retrospect, but it was the hardest thing that Jim had ever had to do.

It had taken no less than four days to get here, Spock's voice giving the exact time down to the very second ringing somewhere in the back of Kirk's mind. Shore leave went on for two weeks. That was enough time to wrap up what was supposed to be a life-long friendship, wasn't it?

_Chapped hands smelling faintly of beeswax lotion tipped back an octigonal cut shot glass of amber coloured liquid. A harsh gulp and hiss followed, followed by a breath as the burning stopped. "Ya can't be serious, kid."_

_Jim sat across from him, legs spread just enough that his arms could dangle between them and slowly swirl his own drink. He remained silent._

_Bones slowly poured himself a third, waiting for Jim to finish his second. "This isn't the end; you can always come back later on. This ain't like the days of Pony Express, vid-chats take less than a minute to connect and letters a day to travel." He took a large gulp, pointing a finger as he pulled the glass away from his mouth. "If that."_

_"I know." Jim mumbled, starting to go for the bourbon but stopping halfway, content to simply watch the sticky liquid roll about the square edges. "It's just... hard. I can't-I can't even talk to him now, and you think he'll want to talk to me when I'm not there?"_

_"That's bullshit and you know it." McCoy huffed, reaching for the glass cork. "You want another or jus' gonna keep playing with what you have?" At Jim's quiet huff, he placed the cap back on. "Now, it's not like Spock has a choice about _a coma _and you know that. When we wake him up, I'd bet you my hootch his little Vulcan eyes are gonna light up at the sight of you; his best friend standin' there like somethin' outta a storybook."_

_Now Jim did drink, half the fluid in his tumbler traveling down his throat and leaving a fiery trail. "Shut up." he rasped, swallowing against the burn. He couldn't help the pull on his lips though, amused as he spun the brown alcohol some more. "Why can't you wake him up now?"_

_Bones sighed, the weary sigh of a mother having been pestered a hundred and four times about the same thing. "'Cus he needs the rest and his Vulcan mind voodoo can't help him anymore. I've told you once - I've told you a thousand times! - the moment he's all tucked into the hospital bed in Starfleet Gen., we'll start waking him up. For now," McCoy's eyes settled on the slumped, lightly buzzed frame of his depressed captain, "you just gotta be patient."_

Well, Spock was all settled into his new bed at Starfleet General, any paperwork about him being there had been filled and copied numerously. Jim watched impatiently as McCoy measured out the drugs for the hypospray, making a show of flicking the air bubbles out and checking the contents.

"Bones." Jim groaned, head flopping back as he growled. "Just get on already."

The doctor snorted, checking one last time before unceremoniously pressing the entire concoction into Spock's bare neck. The thick canister hissed, turning the liquid contents into gas and releasing into the bloodstream like whipped cream from a can.

"There we go." McCoy stated, slipping the used device into a shute for cleaning and recycling. Sparing a glance at Jim - wide-eyed, bushy-tailed, nearly vibrating with anticipation - the doctor scoffed. "This is gonna take some time, Jim. We're talking hours."

The blonde's face fell, those diamond blue eyes loosing their sparkle. Shoulders bearing captain's gold slumped forward. "So long?"

Slowly, Leonard nodded. "Want my suggestion?"

_Here we go. _Jim scowled. _Here comes the 'Go out for awhile and I'll call you when he's awake' bit just to get me out from underfoot. Asshole._

"Sure." Jim rolled his eyes, ready to fight his way as he was dragged out the door.

"Well," McCoy motioned towards a padded seat in the corner, "I suggest pulling up a chair, grabbing a book, and waiting it out. He'll wake up sometime today." he stated. "That's as accurate as I can get."

Jim blinked, face void and blank. "You're not kicking me out?"

"Not as long as your ass stays in that chair and outta my way." McCoy groused. As green eyes met blue, McCoy's features softened somewhat. "I know you're worried, Jim. Don't be, everything'll go as planned. There's some PADDs in the top drawer if you want, don't know what's on them but the last person here left 'em."

Jim smiled. "Thanks, Bones."

Moment later, as Jim was curling up in the large, padded seat with the PADD, a naughty grin replaced the gratitude as his eyes skimmed the title page. "And, thank _you_."

* * *

><p>While the first four hours of Jim's time had been spent viewing the naughty material and ten minutes were spent rummaging through the drawer McCoy had pointed out (of course there would be a Gideon's Bible right next to the 'unmentionable' reading, wouldn't there?) a fair majority of Jim's time had been spent in thought.<p>

He had overheard McCoy talking about bringing in a Vulcan healer for a full assessment of the damage. It was obvious nothing could be done, as far as medicine was aware, but it would be wise to know what telepathic powers Spock did and didn't have before letting him loose. But, Spock's release wouldn't be for quite some time, Jim was certain of that.

_At least Spock'll be with what family he has left..._ Jim's mind traveled about to the planet New Vulcan. All that remained besides an odd cousin and his grandmother was Spock's father Sarek. Spock's counterpart didn't really count, at least to Jim. _Maybe I could visit him when we drop materials for the colony._

A quiet hum sounded, drawing Jim's attentions away from the inner most parts of his brain and towards the still figure in the bed. The onlined PADD in his hands, dim from the hour of disuse, was pressed off and set aside as Jim leaned forward in his chair. Reflexively, his eyes flicked towards the bio-bed readings, not that he could read most of them anyways. Half of them looked bad to a human, but supposedly they were right for Spock. For all of Jim's medical know-how, the heart monitor could have been for the lungs and the blood pressure for how well his pointy-ears worked. It wasn't any of those, though, that had caught the Captain's blue eyes.

The brain wave monitor, a little line once steady closer to the bottom of the grid-marked screen, began to slowly climb upwards.

A second, breathy sigh left the quiet throat, and Jim found himself creeping towards the end of the snowy white blankets. He swallowed once, clearing his own throat before speaking. "Spock?" he called, voice quiet as the long fingers of a hand twitched.

He wasn't at all surprised that, not even a full five minutes later, the door slid open and the material rustling of the doctor's uniform filled the quiet room. Why wouldn't McCoy have some kind of alert system rigged up to let him know when Spock was waking up? It was logical and all.

The room felt too silent, and it was a moment or two before Jim realized he had been speaking, rambling. "It just started," he motioned towards the activity monitor, "and I think he made a noise or something. Nothing much..."

McCoy nodded anyways, only half-listening to begin with. His eyes swept over the readings, catching sight of another twitch of the hand, before setting aside the monitors with barely concealed pleasure. "Everything seems to be coming along smoothly." the doctor stated, taking his time in crossing the small yet spacious room, drawing the large blinds over the gaping windows. "When he wakes up, no sudden moves, loud noises, wise-crack comments-"

"Yeah, yeah." Jim waved him off with a roll of the eyes. "I'm not stupid, ya know."

"Nope." Bones agreed, pulling the final drape with an unecessary flourish. "Just dense."

A soft sigh originating from the bed and behind the oxygen mask cut any counter-comment short. Eyelids sluggishly fluttered, reluctant to open. The edges of Spock's eyes pinched in pain as McCoy prodded his clothed arm.

"Easy, there." the doctor said quietly as Spock slowly tested his eyes, cracking them open just enough to make out blurred forms. "Spock, can you tell me where you are?"

The almond colored eyes opened a bit more, shifting to take in the clean walls of the room, and slid over the monitors and drips and wires. He closed his eyes again. "Hospital." he breathed.

McCoy nodded, humming in agreement. "Starfleet General in San Fransisco, you've been out for two weeks now in a medical coma. Tell me, how do you feel?"

Spock breathed again, sucking in air and slowly letting it whoosh out, fogging the face mask. He audibly licked his lips, taking just a moment longer than Jim would have liked in answering. "Headache." he finally mumbled, shifting lightly.

The doctor scoffed. "I'd bet. That's what comes of takin' a _phaser blast_ to the _head_." Oddly enough, Jim noticed, even with his scolding McCoy's voice remained even and low. "For a guy with the mentality of a computer and the I.Q. of an encyclopedia, ya'd think that maybe _you'd_ think through a scenario once or twice."

"It was the only way." Spock replied, voice raspy and low and breathy.

"I'd bet it was." McCoy smirked sarcastically, looking pleased at Spock's exhausted yet unmistakably exasperated sigh. His hand tightened lightly around the thin arm, still protected from skin-to-skin contact with the thin hospital gown. "I'd bet you're pretty tired too, hmm?"

The bedridden Vulcan could only nod, eyes still closed as if it were too much of an exertion to keep them open.

"Then got some rest." McCoy suggested, the tone of his voice more of a demand. "There's some things we need to talk about, when you're feelin' better and more awake."

Spock nodded again, the monitors above the bio-bed soon returning to their previous levels or neutral slumber. McCoy flinched as a gutteral sigh sounded behind him.

"Jim-"

"He didn't even see me." Jim grumped, arms crossed in front of his chest and a pronounced pout drawing his face. "Spock didn't even notice I was here."

"It wasn't his fault." McCoy started. "He wasn't even fully-"

Either deaf to the doctor or simply not caring, Jim sank back in his chair. "I wait for what, six-seven hours? I waste the whole day here waiting for _him_ to wake up, and I don't even get a second look."

"Will you get over yourself a damn minute and look around?" McCoy's eyes seemed to flash in the dim lighting. "You waited for Spock to come out of a _coma_ for cryin' out loud. What'd you expect, that the 'goblin'd just hop outta bed, all rested and better, begging for a game of chess?"

"No." Jim muttered, eyes stubbornly fixed on the anti-gravity spout under the bed replacing the wheels. "He could of at least looked at me."

McCoy sighed. "Chances are, he couldn't even sense _me_ here, let alone someone sitting in the corner. Spock's tired and needs to rest, go and get something to eat, call up some friends, and get some rest. Doctor's orders."

"But-"

"Jim." the 'friendly' Bones was gone and replaced with Mr. Business Doctor-man. "Give him a day or two to get some strength back, let him at least _sit up_ first, and then come visit him. You've got a whole two weeks ahead of ya to spend with him, just give him a little time."

"Yeah." Jim sniffed. "That's the point, we've just got two weeks."

"Wha', you want me to wake him up again just to say 'hi'?" Bones demanded. "Get outta here and get some sleep yourself, you look like crap."

Jim's blue eyes narrowed as he rose to his feet, refraining from flinching or limping at his sore legs and joints from having sat stationery for so long. "That's what comes from staying up all night worrying over resignation papers."

"I suggest getting something to eat first." Bones called after him as Jim stormed towards the door. "You're always an asshole when you're hungry."

It hurt. Not the comment, but how hard Jim had to bite his tongue to keep from shouting back. He felt cheated out of slamming the door in McCoy's face, the large metal sheet sliding into place behind him. _Shut up, jerk._

* * *

><p>Static, the largest annoyance in the world that had yet to be eradicated even in this 23rd century. A burst of static for each time he hit the channel button, flipping through the crappy channels the crappy television in the crappy hotel had. Actually, if Jim was fair, the room was actually pretty nice. The room was clean and neat, large black-out curtains blocking out the bright lights of the city. While the television set was rather antiquated and cheap, it worked. The bed was nice, the bathroom was pretty neat, and it was all to Jim for his stay on earth.<p>

Sighing, he threw the remote in an empty chair and sat up. He'd already spent thirty minutes in the shower and changed his clothes - a comfy pair of sweat pants and an old T-shirt - and now had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with. He'd considered taking McCoy's advice and going someplace to eat, maybe calling a friend or two from around here or a fellow crewman to join him, but felt too down to act on either one. Instead, he'd phoned in for a pizza before he'd even gotten into the shower that had yet to come.

Jim quickly jumped to his feet, the thought of sitting on his butt any longer annoying him longer than the slow drag time had become, and he began to rummage through his bag of belongings. It took a moment, shifting through small bottles of toiletries and an EpiHypo or two and the extra underwear before he finally reached what he was looking for. An old ink-and-paper bound book, smelling of must and use and yellowed with age. It was stained on some pages with undecipherable brown spots, and the date numbered back all the way to the early 2000's. He didn't even cast the title a look as he settled down to skim the pages, trying to find something to do.

Of course, the moment he found that ever-illusive comfortable spot the pizza-boy would arrive, pimply faced and stammering an apology about going to the wrong hotel and room. Jim didn't even feel bad giving him a crappy tip as he took the food, the scent of pepperoni and cheese making him light-headed. Maybe he was hungrier than he thought.

It was two and a half slices later he started feeling better, and thinking better. He chewed the third piece slower, no longer inhaling the calorie filled, grease smothered pizza and idly eyed a football game. The Buffalo Bills were playing the Miami Dolphins, 2-10. The Bills hadn't made the Super-Bowl for how long, now? The last time being sometime in the late 1990's.

Jim turned away from it again a moment later, never having cared much for football. His eyes landed on the book he had abandoned on the coffee table for the food, finally taking in the title.

It was an old book of Vulcan poetry, a hesitant birthday gift from Commander Spock. The half-Vulcan had tried to remain so covert about his gift giving, too, placing the antiquated volume on Jim's desk in his bedroom when the Captain wasn't around. Obviously, it wasn't too hard to figure out who had given it to him; the first reason being that it was a _Vulcan_ book and the second was that only two people had the code to Jim's room and McCoy had already given his gift.

Jim carefully fingered the old volume, briefly wondering what had compelled him to bring it along on this trip. While a kind sentiment, Jim had never cared much for poetry and the book was written in Vulcan, a language he knew but wasn't exactly fluent in. Jim sighed as he leaned back on the sofa, donning the remote and forgoing the book. He'd only stain the pages with grease, anyways.

* * *

><p><span>Authors' Note - I have only written out this first chapter, but I wanted to post it now in fulfillment of the challenge. Nothing to really point out or say other than I hate how short it is. Also, I hate and know nothing about football except that my father likes the Bills and they suck.<span>

On that bombshell I wish any readers reading this well. Please follow the Three 'R's of fanfiction! (Read, rate, review. What are you talking about readin', 'riting, and 'rithmetic?)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

><p><em>Damn him.<em> Jim groused to himself, tugging at the shoulder of his black leather jacket. Civilian clothing just felt odd after living in a uniform for months. Not that he was focused on the tight blue jeans, black jacket, ancient Converse sneakers, or how good he pulled them off. No, his mind was elsewhere. _Damn him and the ship he came in on._

Jim's list of _Those to be Cussed Out_ was a very lengthy volume, consisting of the names, ages, births, deaths, and trespasses made by each person against him. Ranging from Admiral Komak to Frank, a surprising few made it to the top of his list. Right now, the victim of all the profanities Jim could think of was one Doctor Leonard 'Bones' McCoy.

_Stupid ass._ Jim kicked at a stray piece of loose cement, watching it bounce into the busy street. _Puts on a stupid looking bib and thinks he's the boss of me._

A huffed chuckle forced its way from his throat in a single spurt. That God-awful uniform and bib doctors in Starfleet were forced to wear while ground side was just the thing Jim needed to put a half-hearted smile on his face. Snowy white with pointy arms and legs, like prisms serving as sleeves and pants legs, that doctors uniform made Jim in a female crewman's uniform look good. McCoy looked like a nerd, a stupid nerd Jim wanted to punch in the face.

And... the good feeling was gone. Now he was right back where he started, cursing out the good doctor for refusing him entrance to the ICU. Spock needed to rest. Spock shouldn't be bothered. Spock's in a lot of pain right now. It'd be better to just come by to visit Spock in a day or two. McCoy had said 'Spock' so many times Jim was beginning to hate the word.

So, having been kicked out of the hospital, almost forcibly removed as McCoy fingered his pager like an Old West stand-off, Jim now wandered the busy streets of San Fran all alone and without a friend in the world. Maybe he should just head back to Iowa for those 'few days' and hang out with Elsie, the bovine had though Jim the best thing since sliced bread back when he was five. That was, until Farmer Brown made hamburger out of her.

Jim knew his mind was sporadic, bouncing from topic to topic faster than even he could tell. He also knew his attempts to make himself feel better where getting him nowhere. What he needed was a poorly lit room filled with people and stools and a smoky aura around each item, and a cold one in his hands. _11:30 isn't too early to start drinking, right?_

But, alas, it was. At least, common sense told him so. Plus, Bones would be pretty pissed at him if he found out Jim had drunk himself sick. Jim kicked at another piece of gravel, eyes tracking it as it bounced and lost itself in the crowd of tramping feet. That's how Jim felt right now, just like that little rock being kicked about and stepped on and lost. He felt lost and used and beat up on by the whole damned world. Didn't saving one and a half planets make him entitled to something? Didn't this universe owe _him_ something for screwing up his timeline?

_But what about Spock?_ that little conscious in the back of his head whispered, nearly drowned out by the millions of complaints Jim brought up. What about him? Spock was the one who had no career to look forward to, was shot in the head, had lost nearly all of his paternal side of the family, his mother, his home, his _planet_. Spock had put his life on the line many times, the two most prominent in Jim's mind the time he beamed down to try to save as many Vulcan Elders he could, and the other just a few weeks ago on that Pre-Warp planet and he had shoved his captain away. What had Spock done that was so terrible to deserve any of that?

Jim sighed, rubbing his temples. He was sick. Sick of the world; sick of the entire damned universe. It just seemed like everything had it out for the two of them. _The World vs. Kirk and Spock._ It sounded like the title to a bad holo-vid.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jim strived to shake away the depressing thoughts as he strolled into a small bistro. If he couldn't drown his sorrows in a Budweiser Classic, he'd have to settle for the next best thing. Drowning them in a whipped cream covered cappuccino.

* * *

><p>"Whaddya mean 'e can't come ta the screen?" McCoy demanded, fists clenched as he leaned towards the computer screen. And, yes, he did notice that his accent got thicker the angrier he got.<p>

The being on the other side of the web-cam chat merely blinked calmly, taking a steady breath. "I apologize for the inconvenience, Doctor, but Ambassador Sarek has been extraordinarily busy as of late. He cannot come to speak to you at the moment, but I would be capable of transferring a message if you insisted."

McCoy snorted. "I do." The doctor huffed. "Tell me, Storan? Stalic, was it?"

The Vulcan secretary took another breath, more of a sigh if McCoy wished to play with his psychology degree some. "Storn, doctor."

"Eh, close enough." McCoy waved a hand. "Now, did Sarek ever get my message on his son's condition?"

Storn dipped his head lowly. "Indeed. The Ambassador was quite displeased when informed the previous week."

"Was 'e, now?" the doctor snorted. "He's got a damned funny way of showin' it." The Vulcan looked liked he was going to say something, probably about logic or feelings or lack of. McCoy quickly waved him off. "_Anyways_, being as Spo- the Ambassador's _son _is being decommissioned, and he's probably gonna be out longer than Starfleet's disability will allow, he can't very well stay here for much longer. I was hoping that you'd call up your boss and let him take his own messages."

It was a well-known fact that Vulcans were very patient, and that, short of their planet imploding, there was very little chance of any of them ever acting out emotionally. What wasn't quite well known was that all Vulcan's had their own buttons - pet peeves - and Dr. McCoy just seemed to instinctual know what buttons to press and how long. Storn's once calm appearance looked rather flustered, and only after six point five-minutes of speaking with the doctor.

"Ambassador Sarek cannot answer at this moment as he is away from the premises." Storn spelled out as carefully as he could. "I will take your message and relay it to him once he returns from the Embassy."

McCoy frowned as he propped his hand on his cheek, elbow on the desktop. "Well, if I must." he huffed. "Just tell him that Spock's going to need a place to stay, and what better place then with his own father?" Storn blinked, and McCoy bit his tongue. "Don't answer that, please."

Sarek's secretary seemed to visibly relax. "Is that all, Doctor McCoy?" he asked with only the faintest hint of relief in his tone.

"Yeah, that'll be all." Leonard rolled his eyes.

A quiet breath left the Vulcan as he lifted a hand in the _ta'al_, reaching for the off switch at the same time. "In that case, live long and prosper."

McCoy only flipped a hand in reply, the screen cutting to black as he sunk back into his chair. _Dear Lord. _he groused, pinching his nose against the budding headache. He sighed to himself, turning away from the screen. Thank God for humans, because if the whole universe had been Vulcans, McCoy wasn't sure if he would make it. A quiet rapping made the doctor start, a sheepishly grinning figure filling the open doorway.

"The nurse at the desk said I'd find you in here." Jim started, eyeing the tiny office space briefly. He lifted his left arm, hand clutched around the cardboard handle of a six-pack. "I bear gifts off peace."

Bones snorted, leaning back further in his chair. "Get in here, Jim."

The blonde crossed the threshold, the door automatically slipping shut behind him. The small case of brown bottles and red labels clattered noisily after a heavy thunk, nestling neatly in a corner of the borrowed desk. Jim inhaled, rubbing his hands against the thighs of his jeans.

"About earlier..." he said slowly, "I probably should apologize. For being an ass."

The doctor observed the younger man with a skeptical eye. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" Jim exclaimed, grabbing one of the bottles from the pack as if to say 'But I will be.' "I was saving that until I could do it with you. I went to that coffee shop up the street instead."

Bones leaned forward, snagging one of the glass bottles and using the palm of his hand to press it open. Compressed air and fermented hops hissed as the lid popped off. "Coffee shop?"

"Yeah." Jim nodded. "No alcohol, but the espresso makes up for it. That and the chocolate."

Rolling his eyes, McCoy snorted. "That explains it."

"Explains what?" Jim demanded, pausing after a sip of his beer.

"Your apology." the doctor took his own swig. "There's gotta be something addling your brain to make you say sorry. If not booze, than caffeine."

Jim scrunched up his face in a pout, remaining stubbornly silent as both nursed their bottles in comfortable silence. "Who was on the comm?" Jim asked after a few minutes, eyes on the black screen.

"Hmm?" McCoy hummed. "What's it matter?"

"Whoever it was ticked you off." the younger man pointed out. "And, while a pretty easy task in itself, I'd like to know who."

The doctor sighed, having to take another sip just to answer. "It was Sarek's Vulcan gofer Stalin."

Bottle halfway up to his mouth, Jim paused. "Sarek's secretary is a World War II Russian dictator?"

"Wha'?" Bones shook his head, rolling his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"You just said-"

"Shut up." McCoy groused, cutting Jim off. "I don't care what he is, his _boss_ is an asshole."

Jim only hummed behind the mouth of his bottle, unsure if anything he said would be listen to or not. He'd dealt with Sarek before, carting the Vulcan Ambassador from the gaping hole where Vulcan used to be to Vafor-Tor, where New Vulcan was. The guy hadn't seemed too terrible, a little uptight, but Jim had chalked that off as his planet had just disappeared by a vengeful lunatic and his wife had just died. Plus, all Vulcans kind of acted the same: sticklers for rules, were natural born lawyers, and acted as computer-like as humanly (_Vulcan-ly_?) possible.

"Daddy can't come to the phone, so sonny's just gotta stay put until it's convenient." McCoy mimicked a Vulcan on helium. "And he was 'quite displeased' on learning 'bout Spock's injuries." The doctor paused to take a long draught of his bottle, "Damn green-bloods."

Jim snorted. "That didn't sound racist at all, Bones."

"I mean it!" McCoy all but shouted. "Sarek hasn't even _messaged_ me to tell me he got my e-mail, I had to learn it from Storak."

"Storn." Jim corrected, eyes on the floor and a smirk on his lips as the doctor entirely ignored him. He huffed as McCoy's eyes bore into him, and set aside his nearly empty bottle. "Look, I'll shoot him a message of my own if it'll make you feel better."

The scowl darkened. "My word as a _doctor_ isn't good enough?"

Jim shook his head as quickly as he could. "Not at all, but maybe if we get enough people to harass him, Sarek'll have to answer."

"Good luck with that." McCoy snorted sharply, grabbing up a another bottle and depositing his first back into the cardboard box. "It'd take the whole damned planet instant messaging him to just get that guy's attention."

The captain only hummed as he watched McCoy twist off the lid of his second. He eyed the fourth left in his own. "Is this allowed?" he asked, gesturing towards the pack of beer. He probably should have asked that cute nurse at the desk instead of hiding it behind his back and a suggestive grin.

"No." Bones replied without a care. "But I sure as hell ain't tellin'." His green eyes narrowed at the younger man, daring him to say otherwise.

Instead, Jim leaned back in his chair and finished off the final swig in his own bottle of Classic Budweiser. "Me neither."

* * *

><p>The <em>ISS Enterprise<em>, registration number _NCC-1707_, was a very busy ship. If it wasn't dealing with time hopping, universe shattering psychopaths dead set on avenging his planet, it was dealing with psychopaths from the past cyro-frozen into the future dead set on avenging his crew. A similar theme was found in the two examples, and it didn't have anything to do with time travel or the mentally insane.

It meant that the _Enterprise_ took a lot of crap for the better of others, and was still expected to fly away as if nothing had happened and her port nacelles hadn't been blown off or her engines hadn't been radiated to hell.

Mr. Montgomery Scott was a doctor. In truth, he was an engineer, but he was a doctor in his own mind. While a real doctor might deal with runny noses, he dealt with a coolant leak. His own fevers to cure were overheating engines, and congested chests and stuffy noses were replaced with clogged fuel lines.

Scotty lovingly pat the side of a warm engine block, just the right temperature, if his skilled hands were anything to go by. Each block purred like a newborn kitten, and just like cats, each one had its own proper way to sound. Not just any idiot in a red shirt could tell what throaty hum went to what engine; it was hard enough for most red shirts to just stay alive. But not Scotty, not with the crazy genius mind he had been gifted with and a love for anything with nuts and bolts.

Which was why he was absolutely ticked when he checked his mail mere moments later and found a message forwarded to him from one Kirk, James T.

"Of all the damned-bloody, foolish things ta do!" the Scotsman muttered to himself. He ignored the gentle tugging on his pants legs to continue ranting. "I dinna want this! Jus' who does 'e think 'e is, doin' this ta me? What've I ever done to 'im ta deserve sucha thing?"

The gentle tugs had turned into pointy claws, the thin-haired man forced to look down at his second shadow. "What is it?" the normally silent shadow spoke.

"Jus' look'a this." Scotty thrust the PADD into the smaller, scalier hands of Keesner.

Beady black eyes, like shiny black gumdrops, skimmed over the bright screen, equally black mouth moving in synch with the words. When the final line had been read, he looked up without a word.

Scotty nodded, fists clenched at his sides. "I've been promoted!" he answered the unasked question, fuming at the indignity. "Jus' what does Jim thin 'e's doin', promotin' me at such a time? We're headin' out in just two weeks, an' somebody's gotta keep an eye on this lassie." He glanced down, Keesner's near blank face staring into his. "Yes, I know I'm Third in Command an' everythin', but there's _gotta _be somebody else! Somebody more qualified, not that I'm sayin' I'm not." He looked at his friend again. "No, I don't think yer quite what Jim's lookin' for, so you can jus' keep that to yourself."

Keesner huffed, glancing away only a moment. His scaly arms crossed over his small chest and torso, slapping into place as he turned back to the much taller man.

Scotty nodded again. "I completely agree, an' remind me to have a few choice words with our beloved _captain_ next time I get the chance. Now," the Scotsman sighed, "lets get back to the Jeffries, some fool got lubricants smeared all over it." He had turned and stepped away only a few feet when a gasp was torn from his throat. "Not that kind, you dirty wee midget!"

* * *

><p>It had been in this very place where she had met him for the first time. So many rumors had sprouted, from romantic liaisons in the library to coitus in the classrooms, but, besides the fact there had been <em>no<em> kind of physical contact of any kind, or than a kiss or two, not a single one was close to right. Of course, Uhura had seen Mr. Spock many times in the Academy. His professors black uniform and black hair made him look extremely goth and emo, two things Uhura despised. And, by default, she hadn't given the hybrid a second glance.

That was, until she had seen him here in this here park. It had been early spring, a warm day to most San Fransisco natives, thankful for the chance to shed the winter clothing like snakes and soak in the Vitamin D as long as they could. Vulcans, even half-Vulcans, found it a little nippy to be fully comfortable. That was how Uhura had come to see Professor Spock in a new light.

The uptight Vulcan never went anywhere without his uniform, but that day had been different. The warm yet chilly breeze had forced a light jacket over the gothic black shirt, a dark blue in shade. It contrasted nicely with the black pants and hair and made it look like he wasn't a teenager trying to hide in the shadows. She had been sitting on a bench, studying up for her advanced xenolinguistics class, and he had been a few benches down tinkering with a PADD and an assortment of precision tools.

It might have been fate, but Uhura knew it to be nothing more than her own insatiable curiosity, and the fact this half-Vulcan, half-human looked different. _Approachable _was the right word, as _friendly _could never exactly be used to describe Spock.

She had picked up her books, slipping the bookmark from ancient Andorian to High Vulcan, and strode over. It had taken a few moments for the tall, rather young Vulcan to realize he was not alone on his bench with his tiny screwdrivers and PADD. He had jerked his head up, dark chocolate brown meeting honey, and blinked in confusion.

"May I help you?" he had asked as nice is pie, dry and even, but very polite.

Uhura had wet her lips, swallowing against the bitter flavor of her lip gloss, and cleared her throat. "Good afternoon, professor."

Spock had given a single nod, hands still poised and frozen over his work. "Cadet." A rather uncomfortable silence filled the next seconds to click by, Spock unmoving and Uhura afraid to do so. "If I may reinstate my previous inquiry: May I help you?"

That had started the woman right up. "Oh, well, actually, yes, sir." She had started brokenly, gaining more courage as she flipped open her book. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, especially on your day off, but I couldn't help but notice you're Vulcan."

"A simple assessment." Spock had bristled, eyes shifting downwards and hands slowly resuming their previous tasks.

Undaunted, Uhura had plowed on. "I was wondering, sir, if you could help me gain a better understanding of some of my lessons. You see, I'm having a little trouble with the High Vulcan, especially Pre-Reformation accents."

A thin, slanted eyebrow had lifted up, eyeing the girl of like age as if to ascertain if she was serious. "You are Cadet Nyota Uhura, are you not?" he had asked, receiving a gentle nod in reply. "It is common knowledge that you are top of your class in linguistics; well above average, if I may point out. There could be no possible way you are still studying Vulcanian dialects, as they are taught earlier in the semester."

Her bluff caught, Uhura had blushed. "I... yes, sir." she had said lowly, expecting a full Vulcan reprimand of how she was wasting his time.

What she was not expecting was a very human sigh. "You are currently trying to begin the human ritual of courtship." Spock had set down his PADD, meticulously sliding his tools into a little pouch and rising to his feet. "If you are serious about any kind of continued relationship between us, I am available in the Academy's Library at 1700 to 2000 hours most weeknight. Live long and prosper, Cadet."

It had taken a full five minutes for Uhura to realize that her hand was still raised in the _ta'al_, and she staring at an empty bench.

She sat on the same bench now, breathing shakily to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. It was no longer spring, she was no longer a cadet, Uhura wasn't even sure if she was the same person she had been back then. She herself had broken up the 'courtship' the two had shared for almost four years. Had that been a mistake? Should she had remained his girlfriend, aching for companionship that didn't involve touching fingers once every other week and only two kisses the entire courting?

A cold breeze blew, rusting leaves of gold and red from their nests on the ground and forcing the distraught woman to zip up her fleece sweatshirt. Nyota rubbed her red, bloodshot eyes and took another calming breath. What would be the difference if she was still dating Spock? She'd by just as much a worried, nervous wreck as she was now. She cared for him, but more in a sisterly, best friends kind of way. Another gust of wind forced a shiver up her spine, pushing her to her feet.

Sliding her hands into the fuzzy pockets of her jacket, she sighed, eyes raised to the dim stars above. No, she wasn't meant to be with Spock in any way other than this. She'd always be there for him, no farther than a comm. call away if he ever needed her.

Breathing another soft sigh, she slowly began the short trek through the empty park back towards the Academy.

* * *

><p>Some old country song blared from an antiquated jukebox, refitted to accept the stray credits people found in their pockets instead of the copper and nickel coins of the olden days. Any wood that had once acted as tables and stools, bars and shelves, were replaced with a synthetic formed poly-wood, fully approved by the naturalists of the 23rd century. A few chairs were filled with local bodies, some foreign, and some entirely alien.<p>

But, nothing felt more alien to a bar than a seventeen year old.

Navigator, science officer, and all around _wunderkind_, Chekov sipped at his shot glass of straight vodka like an old pro. Helmsman Sulu sat behind him, content with sipping his own shot of whiskey. The bar they habituated in was rightfully named _The Storm Cloud_. Not only was it fitting due to its location, San Fransisco saw more rain than shine; but it was correct by its attendants. While some folks did take pleasure in a few drinks with friends on the weekend, or a part thrown at one's becoming 'legal', the majority of drinkers were there to forget something or another. They wished to douse their own dark, stormy cloud of troubles with whatever poison they found suitable.

Chekov and Sulu didn't fill any of the normal quota, instead setting their own as the prefered to talk about what was going on ever a few strong drinks.

"I canna believe what has happened." Chekov rubbed his finger over the thick rim of his glass. "Commander Spock doesn't deserve sucha thing."

Sulu nodded in turn, his own shot glass sweating and little used. "Yeah, I heard some guys from Security talking about it in the Mess. Sounded pretty bad."

Chekov's face flushed, one of the few to have witnessed the accident. The trek through the wood-like wilderness had been wonderful, like a trip through Taiga back home in Mother Russia. Birds like neon colored robins had warbled up above, a milky blue sky just a few shades off from the atmosphere of earth. Dark pines had hid the native people hiding in the thickets, the blast of red having come from nowhere and mixed dark green blood with the green of pine needles in a matter of seconds.

The young man swallowed, quickly gulping another mouthful of fermented potatoes. "_Da._"

The Asian glanced towards his drinking partner, nudging him with his elbow. "How're you doing there, Pav?"

The curly-haired boy's eyes quickly shifted downwards, grabbing up his glass and swirling about its contents. "I am nearly finished with my drink. And you?"

"That's not what I meant." Sulu stated. 'And you know it' went unsaid but heavily implied. "You were there when it happened, and aside from some bruises, were unharmed. Seeing something like that..." Sulu paused, debating another sip but deciding against it, "that's gotta be hard."

The Russian's head remained down, eyes glued to the thousands of scratches and stains on the old bar counter's top. He chose one at random and started picking at it idly. "_Da_, but Meester Spock is reported to be doing better now. Full recovery, even."

Sulu eyed the teen an incredulously. "You heard all that?"

The picking at the scratch increased, breaking off shards off faux-wood no longer than a few centimeters each. "Well... I've heard the first part. He _iz_ doing beter."

"Have you visited him yourself?" Sulu asked, sipping his whiskey.

The fuzzy, reddish-orange head shook. "No, not personally, but the Keptain has wisited him. I've seen him go into the hospital myself."

Sulu only hummed, drumming a finger absently against the cool counter. He sluggishly sipped the last, watery drought of his drink, waving away the bartender. They hadn't come her to get drunk, _per se. _"Did you see the bulletin?"

Chekov nodded, humming in the positive. "_Da_, I'm moving up in the science wards. Not much, but... it's a change."

"There's still a blank for First Officer." Sulu pointed out. "Not sure if it's been filled yet."

Chekov blinked up at the older man. "Are you thinking of trying out for it?" he asked, making Second in Command of an entire Starship seem like a position on the cheerleading squad.

"God, no." Sulu snorted. He watched as Chekov tipped back the last of his drink, waiting for the young man's attention before speaking again. "How 'bout you, Pav? Does 'Commander' sound like a title you'd like?"

"_Nyet!_" the redhead exclaimed. He blushed, lowering his voice. "At least, not yet. I'd rather Meester Spock just get better so he can take over again."

"Same here." Sulu agreed, sliding from the bar stool. It was a nice wish, that Spock would be able to return to his command in just the two weeks time. It was a nice idea, but nothing more than that.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note - I was extremely surprised by the amount of reviewsreaders I got for the first chapter. So far, 5 reviews in the first day (3 of those in the first hour of posting) and over 140 views. Plus more on another site. I thank you all for your support!

I also noticed that I've made a reference to whipped cream in both this and last chapter... I apologize for the length of this chapter, a measly 15-16 according to my WordPad. I was really trying for at least 20, but it just didn't happen this time.

If there is a bigger nerd out there, one much more schooled in Star Trek than I am, could somebody _please_ explain to me the relationship between Scotty and Keesner? I know they're best friends and everything, but is there some kind of mental link between the two of them, or does Keesner just know to keep quiet and let Scotty think he's figured things out? (I like to think Keesner's psi-null like a Ferengi, just for the irony.)

Not really any Spock in this chapter, but there should be some in the next. And... about the dating with Uhura and Spock. Not sure if it'll be explained any more than this:

***spray paints wall* SCOTTYxUHURA FOREVER *runs away***


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

><p>This was absolutely ridiculous. Two-hundred and nineteen resumes had been turned in; two-hundred and nineteen hopeful fools drooling for their chance in the spotlight. Two-hundred and nineteen people, aliens and humans alike, trying to fill the most brilliant First Officer in the Fleet's shoes.<p>

And, the real kicker was that Jim wouldn't have had to deal with all this bullshit if Scotty had only accepted his promotion.

_It had been that last thing he had been expecting. After a long and rather disappointing day, he hadn't expected a knock at his hotel room door or to open it and come face-to-face with the Chief Engineer and Xeno-Mini-Me._

_"Captain, I'd be likin' a word with ye." Scotty grit sharply, face pinched in displeasure._

_Jim only stood there, gaping like an idiot as his eyes swept over the short, stocky frame of the Scotsman. His red shirt and black pants had streaks of blue lube and brown oil smears, meaning he'd just come straight from engineering. "Um..." he started stupidly, moving aside before Scotty pushed him away. "How's it going, Scott?"_

_He had to lean back to avoid being smashed in the noise with an onlined PADD. Gingerly, he lifted it away from the callused hands and skimmed the contents. It didn't take to long to read, Jim had been the one to send it out to begin with and was well familiar with the contents. Blue met brown (and black) eyes as he finished, lifting an eyebrow in confusion. What wasn't there to get?_

_"Woulda mind explainin' ta me jus' what that's supposed ta mean?" the red-shirt demanded, tapping the bad before folding his arms across the front of his chest._

_Jim hummed in mock thought a moment or two. "It wouldn't happen to be a promotion, would it? Because, most people I know would be thrilled for such a chance."_

_"Not somebody with a proper brain in their heads." Scotty huffed. He didn't need to wait for a go ahead from Kirk before launching into a tirade. "I canna accept the offer, Captain. There's simple too much going on in Engineering for me ta even _think_ about leavin' it in the hands of some damned fool ensign."_

_Jim scrubbed his hand across the bottom of his face. "I distinctly remember you had no qualms about leaving when the _Enterprise_ was full of unknown torpedoes. In fact, you resigned, and Chekov was promoted to Chief Engineer."_

_"And a damned well job he took care of it." Montgomery snorted sarcastically. "Coolant leaks, the ship damned near crashed, an' then there was the radiation."_

_It took every scrap of willpower to keep Jim from shuddering. He quickly steered the subject back to its original topic. "Scott, I'm not kicking you out of Engineering. Just... pulling you away a little." _Spock is-_was_ both First Officer and Chief Science Officer_. he mused to himself. _Although he never really spent a lot of time in the science wards...

_"Jus' what we need." Scotty seemed to growl. "Me steppin' out for only a moment, an' some idiot blowin' up the whole works."_

_"It can't be that bad." Jim scoffed, trying out his most winning smile. It fell flat at the blank, irritated look of his current Chief Engineer. Jim sighed. "Scotty, I don't like this arrangement anymore than you do, but it's either you step it up and accept this promotion, or I'm going to have to apply to all of Starfleet for a fill-in. And, we both know how hectic that's gonna be. Background checks and resume briefs, then I've gotta meet these people and try them out. It'd take days, maybe even a week, when the simple solution would just be for you to accept it." Jim smiled again. "Well, Scotty? What do you say?"_

It was obvious what the Scotsman had said, backed up by his silent, creepy shadow. Jim muttered to himself as he onlined the next hopeful's report, deleting it with disgust. He hadn't even had to read the whole thing, the picture of an eager twenty-two year old kid too much to look at let alone expect to help run a ship.

_I want a Vulcan on the bridge,_ he told himself, excluding all that were not Vulcan from the resume entries. _Damn. _he hissed as his search came up empty. Not a single Vulcan had applied for First Officer of the blessed Starship. It wasn't all surprising, considering how those of green, copper based blood and pointy-ears were busy trying to build up their population and fill up their planet. Seven or eight years might seem like a lot, but all it really showed after all that time was a half-built planet and a couple thousand toddlers.

Jim sighed, filtering out the humans next, just out of curiosity. Orions and Tholasions, Andorians, and even a Horta had applied. The Horta was deleted without second thought, the acid-covered body perhaps too much for the bridge at this time. And, with great reluctance, the Orions were 'x'ed out of the list next. While it was more on his own behalf that he did so, Jim would have a hell of a time trying to focus on important duties while a green-skinned Orion woman flaunted her regulation mini-skirt; it was also because all thirty-six applicants had been _all _women with the same motive in mind: bed Jimmy Kirk.

That left Tholasions and Andorians. One by one, everyone under twenty-one was deleted. Jim wanted someone with experience, not some punk kid. Slowly, more joined the _Not Gonna Happen_ pile, the in-box draining of even the human applicants. Jim knew he wasn't being fair, he should at least give half of these people a chance, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to replace Spock with some greenhorn Cadet with just a little experience up his sleeve to not make him a total liability. Someone... _Someone like that._

Jim paused, actually considering the resume before him. The sentient was a blue-skinned Andorian, antennae straight and bowl-cut hair snowy white. While older, his human age did not exceed fifty years, and he had served for quite a while in many different ranks, including First Officer.

"Thelin." Jim tried out the name, rolling his tongue after speaking. While it didn't have quite the same ring as 'Spock' did, he supposed he could get used to it if he really needed to.

Just before offlining the screen, another applicant caught his eye. A human just a little older than himself, having served for quite awhile but nothing higher than a normal Lieutenant. Still, command was command, Jim reminded himself, and he didn't want somebody so ancient they had to worry about him throwing out a hip at a little turbulence. His name was Gary Mitchell, a guy that even looked like Jim. Except, his face was more square and his body just a little stockier and taller. He looked like a nice guy, someone Jim could relate to.

Jim saved his link too before deleting all the rest. He tossed the pad onto the bedside table, throwing his arm over his aching eyes. _Jesus_, he had to have been going on like this for at least five hours. He needed three things right now to make it all better: a big steak, a cold beer, and a long nap. Having none of those at hand, and too lazy to go about getting them, he would have to settle for some cold, leftover pizza, a glass of water, and an overdue visit to Spock.

* * *

><p><em>Beep...Beep...Beep...Beep...<em>

The machine was steady, evenly pacing itself between sounds. It counted, not the even beat of a Vulcan heart, but instead the measured breaths he took behind the oxygen mask continuously misting his mouth and nose with an airy spray. The heart monitor, on the other side, had been silenced because the fast, rapid beeps had been too annoying, and one nurse had thought Spock had been going into cardiac arrest. It still ran, the insistent droning hum it emitted was a sure sign of that, it merely did not beep any longer.

Footsteps were another sound Spock was fast becoming accustomed to. Leather and rubber clacking or squeaking beneath the feet of doctors and nurses always wanting to poke and prod him at odd hours of the day. And night, a good three different doctors and six or seven nurses making their rounds all throughout the darker hours as well. It was almost impossible to sleep through, no matter how quiet the medical personnel thought themselves to be. Even their breathing sounded loud to his over-active ears, radiating straight to his head.

And, those headaches. There was no getting past them, around them, or over them. It was either a dull ache in his temples, lightly radiating back to the cranial part of his skull; or it was sharp, shooting pains originating from everywhere at once and shooting through his entire brain. The drugs helped, a constant barrage of chemical enhancers and pain reducers zipping through his systems. Perhaps if Spock had been fully Vulcan or fully human, he would have been more grateful for the medicines constantly fed to him via routine hyposprays and continuous I.V's. Being as he was only half of each, neither human nor Vulcan drugs fully helped. Both helped diminish the pain, and both added to his discomfort by making the pit in Spock's stomach roil about.

The door hissed open, the ratty squeak of old sneakers sounding along with the rustle of a fresh-pressed uniform. Spock cracked open his eyes, testing out the light. The drapes were drawn, thankfully, and the ambient light of the room was only forty or fifty percent. He could fully open his eyes with no fear of the constant cluster headache/migraine becoming any worse.

It took a moment for the blurry body to take proper shape, the distinct step of Dr. McCoy filling in the blanks in Spock's mind while his vision slowly calibrated. Perhaps he really was part computer after all.

Realizing he had an audience, Bones grinned. "Hey, Spock." he greeted, tapping a PADD he had lifted up from the end of the biobed. "Just checkin' up on your vitals."

Spock only gave a light nod of his head, unsure if he fully trusted his voice to hold up.

McCoy didn't seem to mind, busying himself with checking the feeds sent from the monitors to his hand-held device. It still looked all screwy, Spock's physiology being what it was. He could tell certain levels were off - basic brain wave, especially those in his telepathic parts of his mind and motor functions - but that was about it. Oh, sure, he knew what the hobgoblin's blood pressure and heart rate and breathing should be, but other than that, it was a constant game of roulette.

"How ya' feelin'?" McCoy asked pleasantly, sliding the PADD back into its clear pouch.

It was a trick question. He _was_ feeling better, as in he no longer was comatose or bleeding out. His head still ached, numbly from the amount of painkillers in his blood, and he was so tired he wouldn't have been surprised if he slept through the remainder of the _Enterprise's_ five year mission.

"The same." he mumbled beneath the mask, still steadily tickling his face with aerosol oxygen.

The doctor hummed, playing the levers and buttons and twisty-knobs on one of the many monitors like a skilled organist. The insistent _Beep...beep...beep_ of the oxygen monitor silenced, and the spray dried itself up.

Spock shifted forward as the doctor gently pulled the mask free and relieved him of the rubber band holding it stationery. "Your breathing's lookin' good." he stated, setting it aside. "I don't think you'll be needing that again."

Grateful for the cold, airy spray finally gone, Spock clumsily brushed away the invisible droplets remaining and rubbed the green tinged mark under his ear where the band had rested for days on end. The squeaking shoes resumed, moving towards the other monitor and carefully prodding at the bandages. It felt like it should have hurt, the careful checking of the nearly closed wound. Dermal regenerators could have closed it up immediately, but the fragile grey matter within could be fused oddly if closed too quickly. In a few day, the entire hole would be nothing more than a bald patch of tender, new skin and a horrible memory.

The ritual continued on for a few moments longer, Doctor McCoy checking this and that in silence, asking a question every now and then for Spock to answer as quietly and shortly as possible. The odd game of Doctor and Patient would have continued on until finished had a knock at the door not disrupted the two.

A blonde head stuck his head through the door, a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes still brightening the dim room in a way that did not make Spock's head ache. The captain entered, hiding something in his hands.

"Visitors hours started awhile ago." Jim stated, as if explaining why he was late for a surprise visit. "Not sure if you're gonna kick me out again, but-"

McCoy huffed, cutting the younger human off. "Ya can stay, Jim. Spock's up, and I'm just finishing up here."

Jim's smile brightened even more, reaching all the way up to those blue eyes until they sparkled like a pair of aquamarine. "Hey, how you feeling, Spock?"

Pushing himself up slowly, Spock managed to reach more of a lounging position instead of flat on his back. "Dr. McCoy's potions are working as they always do, Captain, turning my stomach." The Vulcan's eyes shifted towards the doctor as he finished. "Other than that, I am fine."

Having had to try not to flinch or step forward and help Spock sit up as the other man had struggled, he retained his smile and even managed a chuckle. Especially as McCoy turned around, huffy and face puckered.

"Well, now I know my worth 'round here." Bones grumbled, turning away from a final monitor. "Perhaps if your blood was red instead of that green sludge swimming through your veins, you wouldn't be so nauseous."

Jim hummed through his teeth, shrugging. "Not so sure about that, Bones. Remember that mud flea vaccine you stabbed me with?"

The doctor gave a firm nod. "Sure do. Between your allergies and his stomach," he thrust an accusing thumb at each of them in turn before turning it at himself, "I'm run ragged."

Jim chuckled again as the doctor made his exit, giving the item in his hand a squeeze and suddenly reminding himself he had it to begin with. "Oh." he started, quickly thrusting it out. It was nothing more than a fuzzy brown teddy bear with green, cursive lettering spelling out _Get Well Soon_ across its furry tummy. " I got this for you. There's a gift shop downstairs, so I was going to get you some chocolates, but then I got to thinking that maybe you weren't allowed to eat like that yet. And then, if you were allowed to eat, I didn't know if it was soft, soupy stuff or actual food. Then I remembered Vulcan's got drunk off chocolate, and that probably wouldn't be a very good idea for you right now. Getting drunk in a hospital," Jim grinned to himself, "who would do something like that?"

Spock's head was spinning as Jim rambled on, the blonde setting the fluffy bear down at the foot of the bed. "I see."

"I saw some flowers, too, but they were making me itchy, so I kinda skipped over those. And, a card's a dime a dozen, so all they had left were these bear-things that I thought were kinda cute." He looked over the little toy again, no larger than his hand. "It's probably illogical, though."

It took a moment for the Vulcan, still reeling from the babbling, to realize that Jim had stopped and was expectantly waiting for an answer. "It was a kind sentiment." Spock replied. And, as illogical as it was, "Thank you."

It didn't seem possible, but Jim lightened up even more, cheeks reddening as he brushed a hand back through his hair. "Yeah. Well, there was a gift shop, so... yeah." A goofy smile replaced the embarrassment not even a full second later. "Ya know, I almost got you a tribble."

Eyes widening and eyebrow sliding up, Spock could only stare at his captain a moment in disbelief. Neither he nor Jim nor Bones were very big on tribbles, despite the fact that it had been one of the fluffy rodents that had saved Jim's life after the Khan incident. And, even though the calming effects they had on human nervous system was fascinating - especially in half-human systems - the bottomless pits the little beasties called stomachs and the fact they were over 75 percent uterus, 24 of the rest being the stomach, it always felt wrong holding one. Like holding all the parts that made up the female anatomy in one ball, a ball that wanted nothing more than to rub itself all over you.

"I... do not belive animals are allowed within the hospital." Spock slowly formulated. "The hospital staff would not appreciate such a dangerous creature, either."

Jim snorted. "Unless its in the lab." he countered with a grin. "God, could you imagine if one of those things got into the cafeteria? It'd probably be the only thing able to stomach hospital food."

Spock nearly shuddered at the thought, especially the aftermath. Tribble infestations were no joke. "I would rather not." Jim laughed again, quiet as he reflected on the teddy bear. "I assume a replacement has been found?"

Jim's mouth went dry. "_Hot as Vulcan."_ McCoy had once said in a different timeline_. "Now I understand what that means."_ Dry, sandy heat sucking the water from everything, even the air. Sand coated everything, dry clay and dust and grit forming somewhere below all that red hot sand. Jim's mouth felt as if it he had suddenly taken a mouthful of Vulcan, or Vafor-Tor at least. Of course, Spock would bring up the one topic he was purposefully trying to stay away from.

"Replacement?" Jim cocked his head like a puppy, a very stupid one terrible at facades, and quickly pulled over a chair, more content to hold onto its back than sit. "For what?"

It was obvious that the bedridden Vulcan was not fooled, his eyebrow saying more than his mouth ever could. "A replacement for First Officer, Captain."

"_Jim_, Spock." the blond stated firmly. "I actually like my name. Or, nickname at least. Hey, cool fact, did you know I was actually named after my Grandfather on my mother's side? My middle name-"

"Jim." It was like the Vulcan word for _Stop at once you fool, don't even so much as breathe again until I tell you to._ Or, better known as _Kroykah!_ A single word, barely even spoken in a normal tone, yet still holding enough power over him to stop him in his very tracks and cause his heart to beat in odd ways. "Jim, you are procrastinating."

"Am not." Jim plopped himself in the chair, crossing his arms like a juvenile.

A quiet breath Kirk couldn't tell was a sigh or just a normal breath left the Vulcan's slightly parted lips. "You are purposefully trying to veer away from my question, thus implying-"

Kirk moaned dramatically, rubbing his temples with a grin. "You're the one with the hole in his head, yet I'm the one with the headache. Can't you ever just talk normally?" he flashed his best smile, the grin doing nothing to cover the fallacy of a Red Herring.

"_Captain._"

Defeated, he sighed and slumped back in the chair. "Fine, I've been going through some reports. Found some guys who might fit the position, and I'll be meeting them in a few days. Nothing definite yet." He glared pointedly at the propped up Vulcan. "Happy?"

"Happiness is an emotion." Spock replied calmly, eyes blinking slowly as he took an equally slow breath. "One Vulcans do not feel."

Jim found he couldn't sum up even a half-hearted smile. "But do they feel jealousy?"

"I do not understand." Spock stated blankly.

A humorless snort was chuckled from the Captain. "Bull. It's written all over you face. You're pissed and jealous that someone's going to take your spot. If I were in your position, I'd probably be too. Hell," he shook his head, "I'm pissed now that I can't have you as First Officer anymore."

It was only in finding that he had been staring at Spock's bed sheets did he finally look up into the Vulcan's face, and pause. An unnatural weariness seemed to have permanently etched itself into every crevice and line. Spock's eyes, the most human and expressionable parts of his body, were engulfed in only the negative emotions of sorrow, longing, and a faint depression that just looked wrong in those once bright eyes.

"It would be... preferable," Spock spoke quietly, "that none of this would have happened to begin with. But, _kaiidith._"

"_Kaiidith._" Jim repeated softly. _What is, is._ "So... that's it? You're just accepting this?"

Those eyes as chocolate brown as Jim's were blue shifted until they aligned with the other's. "It is not as much acceptance as it is realizing that there is absolutely nothing I can do to change what has happened." Spock stated, head resting heavily on the pillows behind him. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but instead jerked away as Jim reached for his wrist. "Please," he gasped, "I would rather you didn't."

Jim pulled back as if he were burned. "Sorry, I-I didn't mean to touch you. Touch-telepath. _Stupid_." he hissed at himself. "I thought that maybe if I didn't touch your hands-"

"Jim." That single word silenced Jim faster than anything else had ever before once again. "It is not your fault." A light green blush began to collect at the base of the Vulcan's neck, where the white neckband of the hospital gown rested, and the tips of those pointed ears. "My telepathy is... skewed, I cannot sence you even with your touch. The fact is... disorienting."

"Yeah, sorry. I won't touch you again, honest." Jim raised a hand like a boy-scout.

Spock, having taken a breath or two to calm himself, managed to glance over the hand incredulously. "You should not make promises you cannot keep, Jim."

"What do you mean?" Jim pinched his face in a playful glare. "I'm a man of my word."

Spock gave a single nod in agreement. "Yes, you are. But, you are also a very tactile person. On a normal day, you touch me no less than five times."

"Do not." Jim argued, beginning to act like a delinquent once again.

"In order of most physical contact, you touch McCoy the most followed by Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, and finally myself. That is not including random contact with strangers throughout the day, or female accomplices." Spock clarified, looking rather put off as Jim started to laugh.

_Female accomplices. Good Lord. _Jim managed to breathe long enough to speak properly. "I can see the others, but Chekov? I barely have contact with the kid, other than the bridge."

"You have pat him on the head on no less than three occasions." Spock stated blandly, mouth twitching and something other than pain shining in his eyes. "He finds it quite humiliating."

Jim turned the most brilliant shades of rose, scarlet, and strawberry on several different parts of his body, especially his face and neck. He scrubbed his chin, squishing his cheeks in the process. "Really?"

The Vulcan gave a single, solemn dip of the head. "Yes, Jim."

"Huh." Jim shrugged to himself. "No wonder he leans away whenever I tell him he did a good job... Or smile at him." Jim paused again, forehead breaking into ridges and brows furrowing. "You mentioned everyone on the command crew, but not Uhura. There a reason why?"

Only Spock could keep his face impassive, unmoving, and yet still tell Jim he was an absolute idiot all with one look. "Because I firmly belive she would seriously injure you if you tried."

"Good point." Jim swallowed. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat and crossing his legs into the typical figure 4. "But, enough about me. How are you doing? Bones been treating you well?"

Another measured nod was his reply. "The Doctor has been most patient with me, and has even tried on several accounts to contact my father, each to no avail. Even Storn has begun to ignore Doctor McCoy's calls."

_Not good._ Flashed through Jim's mind, especially as he was the one that would have to deal with Bones when he was all wound up. "Eh, I'm sure he's just busy." Jim shrugged nonchalantly. "And, there's always been a delay from earth to New Vulcan. Bones' e-mails have probably just been jumbled up in a bunch of subspace chatter."

Spock looked unconvinced. "My father has always been a busy man." he stated so dryly Jim couldn't tell if he were upset or not. "The recent responsibility of rebuilding the planet and population has only exasperated the fact."

Somewhere, amongst the sea of wires and monitors, something began to whir to life. A light flashed, but no origin of the blinking light could be found. Jim jumped to his feet, startled.

_Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep-Beep!_

"What the hell is that?" Jim demanded, eyes sweeping over the multiple machines and the biobed headboard. "_Shit,_ I knew I was going to break something! Or you!"

Just why hadn't he noticed how pale Spock had become, his normally drained of pigmentation face a deathly pallor compared to his usual self. Or, what Jim naturally assumed was a deathly pallor. Spock was laying rather limply in the bed, or had he been like that the whole time? Damnit, Jim didn't just break a machine just by being in the same room as it, he had broken Spock too!

"_Captain_." Spock seemed to have been calling him by his name, falling back into old habits as the softly spoken 'Jim' did nothing to gain his attention. "Captain, please calm yourself. It is not an alarm, and you have neither hurt me nor broken anything. It is merely an alert reminding me and the medics that I am in need of my next doses of pain killers."

Jim could only manage a feeble, "Oh." He cleared his throat, wondering how many more times he could embarrass himself for the rest of this visit. He motioned towards an old-fashioned I.V. drip. "Isn't that thing supposed to be giving you the drugs?"

"Some." Spock agreed. "And it helps immensely. The ones that must be administered through hyposprays are slightly more dangerous to my hybrid physiology, and must be administered differently. I must admit," it appeared it was Spock's turn to be Vulcan-embarrased again, "those drugs make me, as you might put it, 'loopy.'"

Jim smirked. "Really? I don't think I've ever seen you out of it before."

Spock lifted an eyebrow, once again with that immobile face that screamed 'How dense are you?' "Jim, the drugs simply do not dissipate the moment they enter my bloodstream. I am not even fully myself now. My vision is 18/16 compared to my normal 20/20, I have little to no shielding left and am unable to enter my own mind and see for myself, and I belive I am speaking more than I usually would."

Jim tried to do the eyebrow thing Spock was naturally so good at, instead only managing to mash up his forehead and squirm his eyebrows around. "Yeah, you've just been a regular chatterbox this whole time." he snickered. Behind him the door whooshed open, and he turned with a grin. "Hey, Bones, can you believe- You're not Bones..."

The newcomer, a man of coffee-colored skin and curly black hair paused, lifting his rich brown eyes from a PADD he was reviewing. "I'm sorry?"

"You're not McCoy." Jim stated again, eyeing the new doctor as if he carried the plague and a ready-filled hypo of mud flea vaccines in his pocket with Jim's name on them.

"Last time I checked, I wasn't." the doctor chuckled, pearly white teeth shining. "I am Doctor Geoffrey M'Benga."

Jim gave the doctor a third-over. "M'Benga? You look pretty human to me." And, yes, Jim knew he was being rude on purpose. Who did this guy think he was, barging on and taking care of Spock when that was McCoy's job?

"I can assure you, my blood is 100 percent human." M'Benga promised. "I studied abroad for some time on the Planet Vulcan after earning my human medical degree here. I was called in for Commander Spock's case as I specialize in both human and Vulcan diseases."

_Huh... maybe he's one of those ESPies._"_You're_ the Healer Bon-McCoy was talking about?" Jim couldn't help but look over the doctor one more time.

M'Benga shook his head. "No, I can't look into the mind like a true Vulcan Healer can. I'm just a litter better at Vulcan brain scans and blood work than most doctors." he stated, a hint of pride lacing his voice. "I'm afraid, Captain, that I must ask you to leave. As the Commander has probably already informed you, I've got to give him some shots now."

Jim waved the doctor off. "That's alright, I don't get queasy watching medical stuffs. Except maybe surgery..."

"I can assure you, Captain Kirk," the doctor stated in that superior, demanding tone Bones used when he meant business, "it is not your 'queasiness' I am concerned about."

Jim huffed a sigh, letting himself slouch as he turned to Spock, quickly straightening up. "Well... you heard the Doc."

"Yes, Jim." Spock returned. "Thank you for the visit."

"No problem." Jim smiled softly, reluctance clear in his face. "You'd better get used to them this next week, because I'm going to be driving you up the wall with how often I come over."

Spock drew back further into the pillows as the doctor neared, finishing filling hypos and measuring liquids. "Captain, I have no intentions of leaving this bed, let alone scaling the walls."

Jim laughed, a good way to end the visit as he gave a final wave and let the door slide behind him. He took a deep breath in as it closed once more, leaning against the cool, white walls as he let it all out. Taking just a second longer to pull himself back together. A whirlwind of emotions spun through him, along with the looming decision of new First Officer that hung over his head like an electronic, ionic storm cloud. _I don't want a new First Officer. I want Spock! _

Yes, he was being childish again. McCoy had always told him he threw temper tantrums when he didn't get what he wanted. That's why he was so good at getting stuff. But, this time, it just wasn't going to work. Drawing another breath, he pushed himself back up and slowly walked down the halls before Dr. M'Benga left Spock's room and could find him sulking.

* * *

><p><em>'...it is with deepest regrets that I-'<em>

"Oh, _hell_ no!"

Tossing the PADD away from himself, the plastic screen clattering on the desk, he jabbed the start-up on the vid-comm. system. The Doctor's nimble fingers tickled the keys with more force than was necessary, and waited impatiently - with a few curses just to fill up the silence - for the other person to pick up.

_"Ughhh..."_ a sleepy groan matched the bedraggled figure, graphic T-shirt crumpled and hair a mess, that showed up on the other side. _"Bones, you do know it's after mid-night?"_

"Shut up." McCoy growled. "I need to talk with you. _Now_."

Jim rubbed his eyes, scrubbing out the crust and stones from the corners and wiping a bit of damp off the corner of his mouth. _"This isn't about Spock, is it?"_ Jim eyes widened as he woke up more. _"Oh, God. Did something happen? Do I need to get over there? Is it too late?"_

"I said _shut up!_" McCoy shouted at the screen, feeling about with one hand until he found the tossed PADD. "Spock's fine, probably sleeping."

_"Probably? You don't know-"_

A sharp glare silenced the man without another word out of him. "Spock's fine, but this's about him jus' the same." He slapped the PADD, imagining another face instead of the white screen marred with filthy black letters. One with pointed ear and a strong build."I jus' got a message back from the _busy_ Ambassador Sarek."

Jim looked even more woken up as he ran a hand through his unruly hair. _"What's it say?"_

Bones snorted as he brightened the screen, all but barking and snapping each word as he read. "' _Doctor McCoy, in the human gesture, I thank you for alerting me of my son's condition and how he is healing. It is with deepest regrets that I relay that I am unable to come for him at this time, nor will I be able to entertain him in his condition here on Vafor-Tor. My schedule has no time for me to come for a single visit to earth let alone act as the nurse he will need once he is released from the hospital. I am aware that my late wife has relatives within moderate distance to my son. Perhaps they would be better suited for this task than myself. _

_Live long and prosper, Ambassador Sarek.'"_

Jim hummed silently to himself, remaining quiet as he watched the doctor fume. The rage was bubbling up in the doctor like a pot of boiling water. It was only a matter before McCoy's lid blew off from the pressure.

"Can you believe that crock of shit?" McCoy bellowed, and Jim flinched as his monitor speakers screeched. "Couldn't even call on the vid-comm., or a communicator if he _really_ wanted to. But, _nooo_, he sends four lines through an _e-mail_ and then thinks everything's all honky dory."

Snorting, Jim nearly laughed at the term, and how Spock or Sarek would have reacted to the phrase. _"What do you want to do about this, Bones?"_ he asked, rubbing the side of his forehead. _"What _can_ we do?"_

McCoy slumped back, the steam once spouting from his ears drying up and leaving him exhausted. He openly pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "I don't know, Jim. I mean, I can contact his mother's family, but if they don't want to take him..."

_"What about Selek?" _Jim butted in when McCoy's voice had trailed off. _"I'm sure he'd help."_

"Help himself, you mean?" Bones asked, not even smirking at his own joke. "I don't know, Jim. Go ahead and ask him, but Selek's old, even for a Vulcan. He means well, but this might be too much for him. Spock'll need 'round the clock care, a crapload of medicines to battle all sorts of things, and God only knows what he'll need telepathy wise. It probably isn't practical, for either of them."

Jim nodded to himself, trying to remember what time it was on Vafor-Tor if he called up the Old Spock right now. He turned back to the vid-monitor. _"Does Spock, our Spock, know yet?"_

McCoy shook his head in the negative. "I was heading to bed when my PADD chimed. Like I said, Spock's probably dead asleep."

_"Where are you now?"_ Jim asked, looking behind McCoy at the blank well behind him. _"That looks like the room we were drinking in."_

"It is." Bones stated tiredly, drawl gaining more accent as he smothered a yawn. "I got one 'f the beds in the rooms for doctors on call."

The Captain bobbed his head lightly, rubbing at his eye with a closed fist. _"Go get some rest, Bones. We can look up Spock's human family in the morning, and I'll call Selek sometime tomorrow evening."_

"Sounds good." McCoy yawned again. Both came to a mutual understand, reaching for the monitor switches without even a 'Good-night.'

McCoy scrubbed at his eyes tiredly, summoning the strength to get to his feet. He yawned once more, so great he thought for a moment his TMJ bone might pop out of the socket. Thankfully, it didn't, but he was too tired to care even if it had. The drunken stumble towards the little closets rooms was glanced at oddly by the stray late-night patient or two, but the nurses left him alone to trip into the room, keep the light off as he felt about for the bed, and fall asleep before he even had the covers down. It was probably better that way, as McCoy would have cursed Sarek in every language he knew - while in itself was no more than three, but he could swear in over fifteen - and call down the wrath of every god, fake or not, he could on that pointed-eared, green-blooded, bowl-cut asshole.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes - Spock speaks, I hope I didn't ruin him... I am terrible at dialogue, and description... and writing in general. :P (I do not own Spock nor Star Trek )<span>

I am utterly ashamed of myself. My father has ruined me. I have put an Austin Power's reference in my story. (I do not own Mini-Me nor Austin Powers.)

And, I was this close to making the teddy bear a tribble (a live one). || - That close! But... for the sake of plot, I could not. And, I really love tribbles. I have a stuffed one named Gildas, a grey tribble I love to death. I even have an aquatic plant that looks like a tribble. Like a green Genetically Altered Safe tribble from the ST: Animated Series. (Look up Marimo balls/ Japanese Moss) (I do not own Star Trek: Animated Series nor the Tribble Copyrights nor Japan)

This A/N is too long, but for anyone wondering what an ESPie is, it is the term used in TOS pilot 2, (_Where No Man Has Gone Before_) where everyone wore those baby-crap yellow uniforms and Gary Mitchel went bat-skat insane. It stands for people with Extra Sensory Perception. (I do not own ST:TOS or Gary Mitchel or Thelin, from ST:AS 'Yesteryear')

This time, dear readers, I will not beg shamelessly for rates and reviews because they make me smile like a fool and give me something to live/write for. See? I didn't! (I do not own Star Trek)


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

><p>His Mama had been a stong, southern, Bible believing woman. But, unlike the common image of Southern Christianity that summoned up pictures of Bible-thumping, pulpit-jumping, and shouting repetitions of 'Amen!' and 'Hallelujia!', his Mama had been different. She wasn't Southern Evangelical, Southern Protestant, Southern Pentecostal, nor the cliché Southern Baptist. Nope, his Mama had been one-hundred percent Southern Catholic.<p>

The Twenty-third century had eradicated many things since the more barbaric times of old, the Twenty-first century in layman's terms. Racism still existed, but in amounts so negligible it was silly to even consider them. Politics had been formed into a better self-governing system that obliterated Communism, Socialism, Monarchies, and anything other than a carefull elected system that was constantly monitored by choice peoples who were elected as well. Poverty, too, was something of the past. There were plenty of missions, plenty of jobs, and Starfleet was always looking for new recruits and civilians to transplant to colony planets.

What hadn't been taken care of, as it had nothing to do with Government or race, was the ever-touchy subject of religion. A silent battle raged on within the hearts of churches and cathedrals, attacks and rebuffs, counters and frontal assaults that never involved anything more than theology and scripture.

Leonard had been picked on plenty as a young boy, public school as full of Protestants as it was atheists, anthiests, and those who believed in totally different things altogether. Young McCoy had been ostracized, spiritually quizzed and exercised every lunch and recess period, and once even exorcised as a one-time study buddy - the son of a prominent, near-by preacher - caught sight of his Mama's ancient, passed down from mother-to-daughter for generations rosary resting on a crocheted doily.

But, despite trials and tribulation, Leonard had always done as his Mama asked and had attended Mass weekly. He had made his First Communion at the typical age of six and a half, his white tie and tuxedo bringing tears to his Mama's eyes as he knelt just so and folded his hands just right. His father, present at the First Communion, had died soon after his thirteenth birthday and missed his Confirmation two years later. He had taken the name of St. David in his departed father's honor.

It was around that three year period that the only McCoy male left in his Mama's house started to fall away from the faith. Perhaps it really was the fact that his daddy had died and had shaken him to his core, or it could have been he just fell in with the wrong crowd at the wrong time. One could only take so much picking and nagging and harassing so long, Leonard falling away from any kind of church altogether by the time he had enlisted. He was a grown man now, and sick of being picked on like a grade-schooler with shoes too big and pants too small. But, joining the other side would have been the same as becoming the harasser, in his mind.

McCoy picked at his breakfast of eggs and bacon, wondering how well that had worked out. He'd left faith completely, thus he didn't pick on Catholics or Protestants, nor did he argue with either. But, he picked on Spock frequently. But that was all in jest, wasn't it? An entirely different subject. He didn't mean it when he called him a green-blooded computer, a pointy-eared bastard, or some other kind of poke at his anatomy, being, self, or attitude. Right?

Spock had once stated, in a rare moment of sharing, that he had gotten into a fight when he was a child. He claimed his attack came from the other Vulcan child's crude insult to his mother. "_The human whore."_ Jim had pat Spock on the back, congratulating him for sticking up for himself before asking all sorts of stupid questions. _"What kinds of injuries did you give him?" "Did you break his nose?" "Were you suspended?" "Do Vulcan's even suspend their kids?" "Was the other kid punished?"_

He had remained silent, ignoring Spock's wrap-around answers of non-answering for his own thought. If he applied his hard-earned, minor psychology degree, it couldn't have just been a sudden attack. Something had to have built up to that point, the breaking point that had broken the other kid's nose and sent both to the Headmaster's office. Just as he had snapped and broken away from church, Spock had snapped and broke the other kid's face.

_Why'm I even thinking 'bout this? _ Bones grumbled to himself, sipping a large mug of hot, black coffee and eyeing an onlined PADD. On it was a long list of Graysons, extending from Amanda's siblings to fifth cousins and extended family. He wasn't worried about how these unknown humans might treat Spock, was he? He hadn't even met the people yet, and already he was judging them harsher than he did a Klingon. What if they ostracized Spock, shunning him because of the anatomy Bones teased him about so frequently?

McCoy grumbled to himself again, chastising himself as he chewed a limp piece of replicated bacon. Sometimes, he would have labeled himself paranoid if his Starfleet mental examinations hadn't solidified that he was borderline. Just enough to make him a good doctor, but that was about it.

Grabbing up the empty plate and half-empty cup, he slugged down the last sip and tossed both into the recycler unit. The PADD was pocketed, and just in time for his pager to go off. Seems a Doctor at Starfleet General couldn't just work on one patient, they had to be written up for whole floors. And, wasn't it just his luck that Cadets and Ensigns were magnets for stupid injuries and breeding grounds for bacteria _All in a days' work._

* * *

><p>"Shields are fully charged and operational, Captain."<p>

Kirk gave a single nod towards the Asian helmsman. The viewing screen, set out on a wall as white as a sterile room, chrome highlighting its edges, revealed the most glorious images a ship nearly in a dead-stop amongst the stars ever had. A white dwarf glowed to the left while a red giant overshadowed it on the right. A cloud nebula danced like a xeno-_Aurora Borealis_, and the faint, stationery forms of planets could be seen in the far distance in an assortment of shades and colors.

He turned, chair gliding in its stand. "Ship's status, First Officer?"

A long, delicate finger reached out and pressed a single button. The other hand cradled the viewing-lens of a peep-through scanner, brown eyes tracking light and movement a moment before straightening up. Science blues seemed dim compared to the white cap of hair, twin blue antennas popping up like new saplings. The alien looked rather whited out, his blue skin just a few shades lighter than the shirt he was wearing. "All stations are operational, Captain."

Jim gave another nod. "Very good, Mr. Thelin. Mr. Sulu, put her in warp."

"Warp drive." the man echoed, pulling down a silvery handle.

A slight tugging at his gut from the barely noticable pull of warp speed always put a smile on Jim's face. The smile faltered as the ship jarred hard, jerking the bodies on the bridge forward with numerous grunts throughout. The captain sighed, pressing a switch on one of the armrests. "Mr. Scott, mind telling me what's going on?"

"_I'm sorry, Captain, she's come outta warp 'erself." _the tinny voice of the Chief engineer came through spurts of static. _"We're tryin' ta figure it out righ' now."_

Kirk pinched the bridge of his nose. "Very well, Mr. Scott. Keep me updated."

_"Aye, Captain."_

"Keptain!" a second accent shouted as the comm. switched off. "Keptain, I'm picking up readings of three Klingon wessels heading our way." Chekov paused, going over his monitors and equations with a barely moving stylus and a rapidly moving mouth. "I estimate their time of arriwal to be approximately three minutes."

Despite the grave message, Kirk found himself trying his hardest not to laugh. Chekov's accent and impediment always put a smile on his face, even more than Scotty's own thick one. He once told Bones once that, if he was ever dying and nothing could be done, he wanted Chekov to tell him just so he could laugh in the face of death.

Instead of cracking up, even a little, Jim turned back to where the Andornian stood with his hands neatly folded behind his back. "Well, Mr. Thelin? Any suggestions?"

The blue, wrinkled skin reminding Jim somewhat of a frozen elephant turned towards him, calmly assessing the situation. "I suggest, Captain, that we raise our shields and charge our photon bays. The three Warbirds are approaching in a typical attack pattern."

"Good point." Jim returned, considering Thelin's suggestion. He turned back to the helm. "Mr. Sulu, alert those in torpedo bay to charge the weapons. Leave shields down."

Hiding a smirk, Sulu returned, "Aye, Captain."

Thelin's eyes had widened. "Sir, I must insist that we raise our shields. Standard protocol states that, when in confrontation with a known enemy, all precautions much be applied. Raising shields are quite standard precautions."

"That may be, but as I am the Captain, I say leave them down." Jim replied, as sharp as he intended.

The screen before them, once dancing with black matter and shining phenomena, now filled with impending doom as the slime-green ships slowed down before the _Enterprise._ Behind him, Uhura announced they were being hailed.

"Surrender your ship for immediate boarding." she translated with ease, a hand steadying the radio piece in her ear. She gently yanked it out, a frown drawing her lips. "That's all they say, Captain."

"Thelin?" Jim questioned, turning to the First Officer. "What say you?"

"I must implore that we raise the shields." Thelin stated, irritation lacing his voice. "Klingons take no prisoners, and the _Enterprise_ is one of the most hated ships of the Klingon Empire."

The Captain hummed, again taking Thelin's statements under consideration. "I see. Mr. Sulu, fire all torpedoes in Bay 3."

Sulu choked a moment, quickly wiping the smile off his face for a more serious demeanor that looked like it hurt. "Aye, Captain." he strained. "Firing all torpedoes in Bay 3."

"No!" Thelin exclaimed. "You'll only agitate them!"

But it was too late. The ship rocked with the force the five torpedoes were launched with, scattering and hitting two of the three ships, one torpedo continuing on until it burned up in the gravity and heat of the red giant. The phaser banks of the Klingon vessels lowered like robotic arms, a green glow flickering over the tips with the shade of toxic waste. Three bursts were fired off, shaking the _Enterprise_, damaging equipment, shooting up sparks, and wounding six on Deck 7, four on Deck 10, and killing one on Deck 3.

Sulu shouted out the stats above the transformer-like humming of the fritzing monitor. "Captain," Sulu turned after reading it off, "I suggest we take the First Officer's advice and raise our shields."

Jim looked torn. Torn between continuing on his kamikaze style attitude and common sense. He waved a hand, slumping in defeat. "Oh, I guess so. Raise shields, Mr. Sulu."

"Raising shields." he parroted, the hum of the shields powering up. "Captain, the last hit from the Klingons took out most of our power. Shields are only at 37 percent."

The blue Andorian sighed as the Captain swung towards him for his imput. "Sir, there are only three courses of action I can see remaining at this time. One, we reroute all remaining power from engineering to our shields and continue firing."

"Okay." Jim hummed. "The next?"

"Second, if Mr. Scott could get the warp drive operational again, we take down our shields and retreat, using the shield energy to boost the engineering bay." Thelin continued.

Jim's head bobbed like a fishing lure, and he suddenly had a craving for apples as he sat in the captain's chair. "Logical."

"And the third," Thelin sighed, "we take down our shields and surrender."

The captain's face pinched. "Not liking the sounds of that last one. And, as Scotty hasn't fixed the engines yet... Sulu!"

"Aye, Captain?"

"Reroute all extra energy to the shields and fire on the Klingons." Jim ordered. "All photon bays."

The soft clopping of Starfleet issued boots stepped closer to The Chair. "Captain, is that a wise course of action?" Thelin asked softly, so as to not attract the attention of the others. "Should we not be frugal with the ammunition, and send it out in bursts?"

"We've got one shot at this." Jim returned just as hushed. "What's the difference if we treat it as such or fire in bursts?"

Thelin pondered a moment before drawing back, murmuring an apology before standing straight. The scattered shots flew out from the _Enterprise's_ photon torpedo bays, whizzing out in a lethal game of laser tag. The Klingon's were hit, one ship loosing its robotic firing arm, the second taking heavy damage to the sides and bridge, and the third started to spin in a slow circle before the loss of one stabilizer was corrected. The last ship, still able to fire, managed one good shot at the _Enterprise_ before propelling itself back into a slow tail spin.

The bridge shook, the heavy scent of fire and smoke burning in every nostril and olfactory sensor on the ship as that one, fateful shot landed itself in the most flammable part of the ship - the fuel nacelles. One shot landed in just the right way, setting off a deadly chain reaction that left the whole world dark.

That was, until a hellish red glow began to light up the darkness, flickering and blinking like the fires of Hades.

_Game over._

Powering up, the warbling hum and click of powerful lights switched on, lighting up the faux-bridge. The viewing screen continued to blink the words, flashing every few seconds. Jim smiled, the craving for a Red Delicious increasing tenfold as he turned towards the Andorian.

"Not bad." he congratulated. "You did pretty well in the situation I threw at you."

"Thank you for the chance." Thelin said politely, leaning forward in a light bow.

Jim shook his head. "Thank you for applying. You'll be messaged if you've been chosen within the week."

Thelin nodded. "Yes, Captain." Bidding adieu to the rest of the bridge crew, Jim waited for the Andorian to leave before leaning back and sighing. His own mouth twitched as Sulu finally snorted, laughing quietly.

Jim pointed an accusing finger at the helmsman. "That was very unbusiness like of you, Mister." he scolded with humor in his tone. "How dare you not take this simulation seriously."

"I'm sorry, Captain." Sulu still could not contain himself, Chekov beaming and eyes shining in the seat next to him. "But, did you see the look an that guy's face? He thought you were insane!"

"That wouldn't be too far from the truth." Uhura piped up from behind, spinning the fake ear-radio-transmitter between her fingers. "It takes a special kind of crazy to be a Captain, especially Captain Kirk."

Jim lay a hand over his heart, smiling with his lips and looking out at the now dark viewing screen. "Aww, you think I'm special. How about we go out for drinks later? Just you and me. Then, my place?"

Uhura rolled her eyes. "In your dreams, farm boy."

"Every night." Kirk promised, smiling towards the woman who, in turn, scoffed again. He slapped his hands on his thighs, pushing himself up from the seat. "Speaking of farms..." he glanced about, "does anyone have a Granny Smith?"

* * *

><p>Thank God for Greenies. Or, was it Foodies? Whatever it was, thank heaven above for whatever crunchy hippy group that had pulled together that farmer's market. Jim would have missed it had he been on any kind of transportation unit other than his own two legs. The scents of dirt and natural soaps and fresh-fried doughnuts had wrapped their tendrils about him, dragging him towards the clamoring marketplace soon after he had left Starfleet Academy and set out on a walk. And, wouldn't it be his luck that a large stand there sold nothing but the ripest, most delicious apples Jim had ever laid eyes on?<p>

_Crunch!_

Juice dribbled down his chin, the soft yet firm skin of the Macintosh bursting on contact with his teeth and swarming his mouth with flavor. His one hand, sticky and wet, was wrapped firmly about the large fruit while the other wrapped around a small quart basket filled with five or six large apples of the same deep, red color as the one he was munching.

The first door he entered slid open with ease, not a hitch in the world keeping him from slipping into that elevator and pressing the right button. Jim took another bite of his apple, slurping juice from the crock of his hand, licking down his palm and to his wrist after a stray, golden drop that evaded his lapping tongue. The lift he was riding dinged, doors opening to let him off. Harsh lights above were mere shadows compared to the brilliant sunshine streaming in through the gaping windows, the sparkling white floors clacking beneath his feet.

_Eh..._ Jim moaned as he lifted one hand to knock, only to nearly smash his apple against the faux-woodgrain. His other hand was busy balancing the remaining fruits, so his elbow played hand as he bapped it against the closed panel.

A buzz replied, the person within pressing a button to release the lock that would normally be disengaged by a doctor. Jim strode in, feeling for all the world that, finally, someone up there was finally smiling down on him. That was, until - _There's always something_ - he walked in.

Spock lay back heavily with a hidden breath, having sat up partially to release the lock on the door. A new hospital gown was wrapped around him, a light blue with darker blue-collar and armbands. He looked tired, even more so than the day before. His forehead was lined as if he was hiding the pain as well as he could yet remained unconscious of anything below his nose, and his cheeks were splotched with shamrock green. His eyes, however, while pinched at the corners, still managed to shine at the sight of his visitor.

"Captain-" Spock started, correcting himself at the scolding yet playful look Kirk shot him. "Jim. I was not expecting you today."

Jim's eyebrow, still not as talented as Spock's, managed to get its point across if the puzzling pucker of his lips didn't. "I promised you I'd drive ya crazy with visits, didn't I?"

Technically, Jim had mentioned something about walls and driving up them, but Spock thought it better to not mention that. "You did." he admitted instead, glancing towards his hands resting limply on the blanket. "I merely miscalculated what that would mean."

Jim snickered, reaching for the arm of the chair to sit down only to find his half-eaten apple and the quart basket in the other. "I brought you something."

If Kirk had not been smiling before hand, he certainly would have been now as Spock's eyes widened at the basket. The Vulcan swallowed once, twice, and quickly adverted his eyes from the fruit. "Jim," he started quietly, "you do not need to bring me something every time you come here."

"I didn't mean to, honest." Jim swore as he set down the apples, faintly giving off a sweet aroma, and plopped down in the chair. "I just couldn't pass up the chance of getting some after coming from the Academy. We were trying out one of the applicants in the _Kobiashi Maru_ simulator, and I just happened across the fruit stand."

"Ah." Spock's voice was just barely stronger than a strong whisper. "Now I understand." Neither would ever forget the day, and Spock could never forget the very moment, Cadet Kirk had beaten the unbeatable test. Using unorthodox methods, of course, and then dripping Pink Lady juices all over the consoles just to be extra-cocky. It had taken the cleaning crew hours to scrub every last drop of the apple off of the handles and knobs of the room, fearful that the trace levels of arsenic in the seeds might be too much for a different alien's systems to handle. "Which applicant did you first test?"

Jim smirked. "The Andorian. I think he thinks I'm a little off in the head." he stated, tapping his temple.

Spock's non-changing face seemed to concur. He leaned back against the headboard, minutely but heavily. "How did your assessment go?"

Jim laughed, quickly launching into the whole story. It wasn't much of an adventure, even if Scotty had electrocuted himself trying to rig the _Kobiashi_ to their own test run, but it still burned up a good half-hour of Jim's visiting time. The blonde rambled on, mixing up facts and getting things all in the wrong order, but managed to get out the whole experience in the end. Spock was quiet during the other young man's speech, drinking in every word with very little to add or ask himself. He seemed perfectly content to just lie there, shoulders deep in the pillow and head against the plastic headboard.

_Too content._ Jim frowned inwardly, forcing himself to brush that thought away. "We'll - the Command crew and I - we'll be testing Gary Mitchell in a day or two. I'll tell you all about it afterwards." Jim promised sincerely. "Have you reviewed their resume's?"

"No." Spock shook his head. "Dr. McCoy had greatly restricted my use of PADDs."

Jim snorted. "I can take care of that." he started. "I can bring one with me tomorrow, if you'd like. Grab them from your quarters-" Jim flinched no sooner had the words left his mouth. Spock's quarters, the First Officer's room conveniently connected to the Captain's. It still held all that Spock had left, memorabilia of his ex-home world and sparse gifts from his mother he kept hidden. All the stuff within may have been Spock's, but the moment the _Enterprise_ left dock, the room wouldn't be his any longer.

The Vulcan, either too tired to be offended or notice the slip or really oblivious, never showed any reaction. "It would not be of very much assistance." he admitted lowly. "I am having difficulty focusing on anything, but especially with anything written."

"Oh..." Jim hummed, disappointment clear in his voice. "Well, I'm sure Bones can fit you up with a bottle of that Retnix stuff. What is it, Retnix 2? 4? 8?"

"Five was the last solution mixture." Spock clarified. "But it would be of no difference, it appears the base solution all Retnix medications use would greatly conflict with my hybrid physiology. I believe Dr. McCoy mentioned something about acidity levels burning the corneas."

Jim hissed in sympathy, chuckling softly the next second. "Don't feel too badly; I'm allergic to the stuff as it is. You know," a smirk played with the corners of his mouth, "I'm pretty sure everybody's wanted to see you with a pair of glasses." He made loops about his eyes with fingers, just in the odd case that Spock didn't know what glasses were and not the fact that Jim was teasing him in any way.

A raven black eyebrow barely tilted. "Indeed?" Spock came as close to harumphing as Jim had ever heard.

Crunching the last sweet, juicy bite from his demolished apple, Jim tossed the core into a nearby wastepaper basket and wiped the excess liquid from his chin. "So..." he drawled out contentedly, eyeing the remaining apples in the basket. _No, those are for Spock, you glutton._ "Has anyone come by to visit you, or has it been just me?"

"Doctor McCoy has seen to me frequently, but I do not believe that is the answer you are looking for." Spock stated lowly, goaded on at Jim's eager persistance. "Lieutenant Uhura visited me later yesterday evening and expressed that a few others would be coming in their own time." Spock sighed quietly as Jim sent another longing look towards the quart of plump, red apples . "Jim, you do not need my permission to take another piece of fruit."

Quickly reaching out, Jim hesitated, his hand hovering over one of the rosiest apples in the bunch. "Ya sure?" At Spock's quiet nod, he quickly snatched it up and chomped a side off before launching into another story, some idiot having mistaken him for a crappy movie star. Didn't those people know talent when they saw it? It wasn't like the two times (co-) saviour of earth (and multiple planets in between) came to California every day!

* * *

><p>Hospitals were almost always gloomy, especially the wards dealing with the darkest and most melancholy of circumstances. The Urgent Care, the Intensive Care, the NICU, the Emergency Room, and the Operating Rooms that were usually filled and bustling during the day, seemed to slow during the darker hours. That wasn't to say that accidents didn't happen during the night. Contrarily, some of a doctor's worst cases were rushed up on a gurney during the later hours; the more evil of intentions lurking about in the flash of a blade or the beam of a phaser in a midnight alley way. Thefts gone wrong, murders not fully carried through, attempted suicides, rapes, molestation, mauling, mobbings, and muggings seemed to thrive in the absence of the sun and in the reflection of the moon.<p>

But, it wasn't simply the cases that caused the brightly lit hospital to take on a spooky feel. The closed doors, lights dimmed and dark underneath, while patients slept in natural REM, unconsciousness, or comas only helped to set the stage. It was the lack of noise, the silent whispers of comfort from a loved one, the quiet weeps of a relative over the heads of closed eyes, and the chattering of someone woken up and feeling better all sucked away into the black hole of the graveyard shift.

His own feet helped to add to the eeriness of it all, the _squeak-clack, squeak-clack, squeak-clack_ of his sneakers sounding on the polished floor. McCoy's nerves were frazzled enough on a day-to-day basis, he didn't need the night added to that as well.

Quietly, he typed in his command code to a single, closed door. It whooshed, allowing him access to the nearly dark room. The drapes, almost completely drawn, showed just enough of the busy San Francisco town down below. Even now, cars and buses and taxis honked and shouted to one another, people bustled throughout the less-crowded streets, a homeless bum lay prostrate against the locked gate of a closed building, and blinking lights flashed from headlights and streetlights and billboards and apartments. It was too loud, too busy, and too bright to see anything in the sky other than a gibbous moon in waxing phase, and even the moon's light seemed washed out compared to the artificial lighting below.

His fingers tapped a small box on the wall, a manual thermostat for temperature and lighting starting up. _Light's 40%_, the small screen read. Blinking in the dim shadows, the rustle of hair and bandages against a pillow turned towards the now closed door.

Bones smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"I was not asleep." Spock's replied quietly, just barely shaking his head.

"Restless, hmm?" McCoy grunted, stepping towards the biobed before pausing. "Oh, for the love o' God." he muttered. He strode forward a little more, snatching up something dark and round. "Has Jim got ya believin' in Old Earth folklore already?"

Spock wearily lifted a silken eyebrow. "I am afraid I do not understand."

"This!" McCoy exclaimed, still carefully controlling the level of his voice. He brandished an apple the way Sulu did his fencing foils. "'An apple a day?' Sound familiar?"

For a moment, Spock only looked at the doctor as if the man had managed to grow a particular piece male anatomy out of the center of his forehead. A second later, realization set in, and Spock's eyes lit up. "Ah, I believe my mother said something similar when I was a child. No, Doctor," he stated most seriously, "I have no intentions of warding you off. They were merely a gift."

Bones hummed warily, inspecting the fruit in his hands before setting it back. "You haven't eaten any have you? It might not be the best thing to try just yet. You were just puking this morning."

A green flush highlighted Spock's cheeks and around the base of his ears. "I have not." he said.

"Do you want 'em?" Bones asked next. "For later, I mean."

Spock turned, eyeing the great globes of fruit and their smooth, unblemished red skin before reluctantly shaking his head. The mere sight of them nauseated him, and they would only rot before he could even think of stomaching them. "No, but please do not simply throw them away."

"I wouldn't think of wasting these!" McCoy exclaimed again, slipping one or two in his pocket. "I'll take one for myself now and bring the rest of these down to the Staff's lounge." Donning the PADD at the end of Spock's biobed, the doctor chuckled to himself. "They'll probably be a bloodbath over them."

McCoy lifted his eyes as Spock's heart rate lifted minutely. "Why would any doctor or nurse kill over a simple piece of fruit?"

"You've never worked a floor have you?" McCoy asked with a grin, quickly continuing before Spock could answer. "Always on your feet, barely sleeping, barely eating, and when you do you try to grab the sugariest, most filling thing you can before you're paged again. And, that usually involves a donut or bagel from a fast-food joint, or a bowl of cereal if you're _really_ lucky." He chuckled again. "No one has time to stop at the grocery store or farmer's market to pick up all the fruits and veggies we doctors try and get our patients to eat. You could argue replicators, but fruit just isn't as filling and is more time-consuming than a muffin you cram in your mouth while running down a hall."

"I see." Spock mused sullenly, eyebrows pinched in though. "A most unhealthful lifestyle."

"You better belive it." McCoy replied. "Those apples will be grabbed up faster than corn in a henhouse. You'll be _mighty _popular amongst this floor's staff." he grinned, drawling out as many syllables as he could. "Now, then, lemme finish proddin' ya, and then I'll get ya something to help ya sleep. Sound good?"

In all truth, it did not, but all Spock could do was gently nod and wait for the quiet hiss of a hypospray and fall fast asleep.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note - I'm writing this note down first before I even start writing this teddy bear seemed to be a huge hit in the last chapter, surprisingly as I thought the silly sentiment would be scorned by the KS community, and either be criticised or lose several readers. Now, dear readers still reading, I am coming to you for help. It is uncertain if I shall name the little teddy bear, but I am willing to entertain a few names if any of you out there want to try and toss some at me. Just for giggles. (Again, names may/may not be chosen. If anything jumps out at me, it may be woven into this digital story cloth. If nothing, then no name will be given teddy.)

A lot of you are probably angry I made Bones' mother Catholic. Just an odd twist I wanted to add, and I'm pretty sure he said he wanted to beam down to a planet once and go 'Hark! I am **Saint** Gabriel the Archangel' or something like that. I could have heard it wrong, though... my hearing isn't the best. :P Forgive me if I was wrong. (Episode was Bread and Circuses, a surprisingly good episode)

I know I skipped over the communication with Selek and Amanda's side of the family, but I'd like this to be a longer story so it needs to be pased out some. They should be in next chapter, but no promises.

Also, is it just me, or is my Jim slightly bi-polar? (I do not own Star Trek nor any of the characters, but if somebody would like to give me Nu!Verse Mr. Spock I would be forever indebted.) I am breaking one of my own rules of one chapter per week, so please read, rate, review, reprimand, etc.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

><p><em>Do, do, do!<em>

The musical, and rather annoying, start-up of the comm. hummed as it warmed up. The screen, once a pitch black, now resembled more of a charcoal grey as it tried to connect light years away. There was probably some solar storm screwing up connections between Earth and Vafor-Tor, just to try his thin patience.

Jim was about to dig out his hand-held communicator and try things the old-fashioned way when a loud click finally signaled a completed connection. The holo-screen remained dark a moment longer, waiting for the other side to pick up, and instantly lit up to reveal the face of an old friend.

_"Jim."_ Selek gave as much as a Vulcan smile as he could get away with at a familiar crop of blonde, like a frizzy patch of golden wheat. _"It is pleasant to hear from you."_

"Spock." Jim returned, pausing with one eye scrunched and face tilted. "Or is it still Selek... does the line need to be secured to call you by your real name?"

_"James, I can assure you that no time-ending paradox will occur if anyone caught wind of my true name."_ Old Spock replied, eyes shining. _"But, now I am Ambassador Selek."_

Jim hummed. "Ambassador, hm? How many strings did ya need to pull to land that gig?"

_"None whatsoever."_ the Vulcan promised. _"I had only to prove myself to Elder T'Pau of my position in my own timeline, melding with her."_

Jim chuckled, wondering what it would be like to be older than his own grandmother. Or father, for that matter. The mere thought of Sarek was enough to sour Jim's expression, unconsciously frowning at the screen.

_"James."_ the voice on the screen interrupted the young Captain's train of thought. _"There seems to be something on your mind."_

"A lotta things, really." Jim stated, leaning on the console and muffling a yawn. Time differences between Vafor-Tor and Earth were rather similar, depending on what city was calling where. San Fransisco calling New Shi'Kar was like calling New York City from London, England. Realizing he was wandering, Jim quickly turned his attention back to the screen. "Have you heard about Spock? Er... our Spock, the younger one?"

Selek's eyebrows furrowed as he slowly shook his head. _"I have not."_

_Of course not_. Jim rolled his mind's eyes. _Why would Sarek tell anyone anything?_ "Selek... where you ever injured in your timeline? On a mission?"

_"Most certainly." _Selek replied, a smirk playing with the corners of his lips. _"More times than our Chief Surgeon would have liked, but I always pulled through in the end."_ The much older Vulcan paused. _"Has something happened to my young counterpart?"_

That was all the invitation Jim needed to launch into his story. The simple mission to Omiceti II because of odd energy bursts resonating from the planet. As it turned out, the surges were actually quite natural to the planet and helped in keeping it stay in its orbit, but the natives had turned out much more dangerous. Scotty had promised he had beamed them down to an area with no population, all wood-land and bunny rabbits, and he very well may have. But, people and things move about, until a small group of the tribal warriors had scouted their way to the _Enterprise crew_.

Jim had to pause before telling Old Spock how his young self had been seriously injured in saving himself and how there was no hope of him returning to the _Enterprise_ anytime soon.

"Or at all..." Jim concluded, eyes downcast. "I was kinda hoping you could tell me the same thing had happened to you, and you shocked the doctors with your amazing healing skills and were running laps around the hospital before the week was up."

His hopeful smile fell as he met the drawn, serious eyes of the much older man. _"I am afraid nothing of the sort ever happened to me. At least," _Selek stated, _"not like that._"

"Whaddya mean?" Jim questioned, his other arm joining the first in propping up his body.

_"I, too, once protected my captain from death."_ Selek replied. In truth, in his timeline he had protected his Jim almost every day from the Captain's own self, but he thought it wiser to ignore self-inflicted injury from the category. _"There was a black, floral plant with the capabilities of shooting out poisonous thorns from its stamen and pistil, killing almost instantly. My Jim was targeted without his knowledge, and I shoved both him and Doctor McCoy away before either could be injured. I was too late to save myself, but my Vulcan genes were able to help filter the poison in my blood long enough for McCoy to finish the job."_

Drumming his fingers against the monitor's top, Jim shook his head. "Yeah, but a flower isn't a phaser blast to the head."

_"I was later thrown by an unsually strong force field and struck by lightning."_ Old Spock finished, almost cockily if Jim had deciphered his tone properly.

"In the same day?" At Selek's nod, Jim cursed. "Damn. But, you were still able to use that Vulcan healing trance, weren't you?"

Selek gave a solemn dip of his head. _"Indeed, I was. To be honest, I cannot recall a time I have not had my telepathy, at least in some form or strength. That is a most serious condition to any Vulcan, half or whole. Has our father been alerted of his condition?"_

Jim snorted, scoffing haughtily. "Only about a half million times. Bones got an instant message back a few days ago. To sum up what it said, 'Sorry, but no thanks.'"

The elder Vulcan sighed softly. _"Our father has been under extreme stress these past years. I am certain he meant no malice towards any of you. But, in your calling me, I assume that you desire for me to assist in some way?"_

"Yeah..." Jim scrubbed the back of his neck. "I was hoping you could, I dunno... help him in someway, take him in, show me to somebody that might want to help him. He can't be alone, not that he's- you're- either of you are an invalid or anything." _Damn, this is so confusing._ "McCoy says that he's gonna have some problems adjusting, 'cuz of his shields not being there any more, and his motor control and hands are gonna need some work to get back up to speed, and we won't know what else until that damn Healer comes, but he's gonna need some help for awhile..."

_"I am afraid I would not be of much assistance in this area." _Selek admitted quietly, eyes shifting away from the screen as Jim's babbling came to a stop. _"I have been asked to mediate at a Romulan-Vulcan committee in a few weeks, and would be very poor company even had I not."_

Jim tried to laugh, the sound coming from his throat almost haunting. "Not very good talking with yourself?"

_"On the contrary, my counterpart and I get along just fine." _Selek returned with a soft tug at the corners of his lips. _"Jim, I am not as young as I used to be. I fear Spock may suffer more at the hands of himself than if he had been truly alone. But,_" the elder Vulcan was quick to add as Jim became even more and more downtrodden,_ "if my assumptions are correct, you are on the planet earth. Our mother had relations-"_

"I'm gonna stop ya right there," Jim held up a hand. "Sarek already told us about them, and Bones and I are checking into it. What kinda intel can you give me on them?"

Jim had never seen a Vulcan look so sheepish as that 100 plus-something-year-old did at that very second. _"Very little, I'm afraid. I never had much contact with them, other than an occasional holiday card. I never spent much of my time on earth, and what time I did were spent in studies at Starfleet. My mother also spoke very little of them." _Old Spock replied. _"But, when she did, she very rarely had anything condescending to say of them."_

"Could that just be because she didn't want to bad-mouth them?" Jim mused out loud, more to himself than the older, time-space jumping Vulcan.

Old Spock lifted a shoulder in a very human gesture: a shrug. _"I could not tell you. And, being as how different my timeline seems to defer from yours, our mother's family here could be entirely different from they were in my own world."_

Huffing to himself, Jim sighed. "That could be for better or worse." He sent a glare, more playful than vindictive, up at the screen in front of him. "Ya know, you're not being very helpful."

Selek merely shrugged again, eyes twinkling. _"My apologies, James. I fear that I must leave you for now. While I am not as busy as Sarek, I still have more than my fair share of duties to attend to."_

Jim waved a hand while nodding lightly. "'Kay, sorry to bother you."

_"It is never a bother, James."_ Selek replied kindly, voice softening. He lifted a hand in the _ta'al_. _"I wish you and my counterpart well."_

Jim lifted his hand the same well. "I'll put in a good word for ya."

A moment later, the screen winked to black, and Jim found himself all alone in his room again. He scrubbed his nose and forehead, contemplating returning to bed. It really was early, but any sleep that had once fogged his mind seemed to have been blown away. Bones had warned him that this was going to happen, that Selek wouldn't have been able to take Spock. The fact was always the hardest when it was finally proven right.

* * *

><p>Another day, another simulation. Instead of procrastinating, the one sport Jim was exceptional at, a discussion with McCoy had jump-started Jim into testing the final applicant sooner rather than later.<p>

(_"Damnit, Jim! Get off yer ass and get goin' already!")_

So, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and rearing to go, Jim put up with the plastic and foam chair of the _Kobayashi Maru_ training simulator one last time. The simulation was much the same as the last time, only different. Instead of Kingon Warbirds, a single Romulan Bird-of-Prey played hide and seek with the monitors, showing itself one moment before cloaking the next.

"Mr. Mitchell," Kirk barked towards the station at his right. "Have you triangulated the position yet?"

"Trying, sir." the platinum blonde man grunted from his corner. His eyes shifted between monitors of equations and tracking devices and the peep-hole scanner as he tried to deduce the place of the invisible ship.

Kirk nearly sighed to himself. He wasn't used to having so many human errs in command. He always overlooked his own mistakes, but Spock had made very few of his own to ever be teased or reprimanded on. Gary Mitchell had yet to do something stupid, and he was well within the normal working parameters of a slightly more than average human, so what was wrong with Jim? The Andorian had been slightly faster at solutions, but not by much. Both had done well, and better than the average of their species, but something was still missing.

"Keptain." Chekov's voice piped up from his own navigation station. "I hawe narrowed down the possible coordinates of the Romulan wessle." He stated, spitting out the numbers before turning to look around.

Behind him, Jim could hear the beeps of a scanner narrowing down to those quadrants and continuing scanning. "Thank you, Mr. Chekov."

The beeping continued, becoming faster and faster as the scanning came closer and closer to the invisible entity. "Got 'em!" Mitchell exclaimed, whirling around in his chair and giving the coordinates.

"Lock on coordinates." Jim repeated, Sulu quickly moving to obey. "Fire at will."

"Aye, Captain." Sulu paused, hand poised. "Firing."

The ship rocked, jerking backwards at the force the bursts were fired off. The red photons seemed to be aiming for nothing but empty space, empty space that wobbled like a plate of Jell-O when slapped.

Jim's ears perked up at a hissed, "Ye-es-ss." behind him, and a fist being pulled back in triumph.

Gary froze, still smiling, as the Captain's eyes landed sharply on him. "Did you not think that would work, Mister?" Jim demanded.

"No, sir." Mitchell calmly shook his head. "But it always feels good to be proven right."

Jim hummed. A First Officer talking about emotions? Maybe Spock had rubbed off on him more than he had originally thought. Maybe, this is how, not just Spock himself, but the rest of the crew saw him? Munching apples, dissing authority like some punk kid (which he was), cheering at odd times, or laughing at even worse, did he look like that to others?

_Nah_. Jim brushed those muses aside, pulling his attention back to the mission. The Bird-of-Prey's invisibility shield had been struck, the green and tan ship coming into view as it warbled into view. It's phaser banks were lowered, fully charged, and ready to fire.

"Shields up!" Jim ordered reflexively, about to slap himself in the forehead once the order was carried out. _Crap_, he was supposed to be testing this guy in the most ludicrous, impossible scenario he could, not taking acting like he would in a real attack situation.

Gary, however, didn't seem to notice anything wrong as three shots were fired at the _Enterprise_, rocking the ship and lowering the shields to seventy-two percent. The lights flickered, darkening a moment before the generators kicked in. A yellowish, candle-like glow filled the room, replacing the harsh white light of before.

A button to his left was flashing, and Kirk pressed it. "Kirk here."

_"Engineering, Captain, an' we've got problems." _Scotty's voice, still tinny over the comm. link but lacking the static of last time. _"That las' hit from the Romulans caused a coolant leak in one o' the Jeffries. We've shut it down an' started fixin' the problem, but the life support systems are shot to shite, sir."_

Jim exchanged glances with the wannabe Second, looking for some kind of reaction. He found none, except eagerness to please and adrenaline to continue on. Kirk could almost smell the testosterone. "How long have we got, Scotty?"

_"A few hours - four at best, half o' one at worst, sir."_ Mr. Scott replied morosely, voice apologetic. _"We'll be outta luck if we lose much more power. The generators are workin' overtime on both the power and support systems."_

Huh, maybe this simulator would work out anyways. "Understood, Mr. Scott. Just do your best, and report in any change - good _or_ bad. Kirk out." he clicked the comm. off, "Mr. Mitchell."

"Here, sir." the tall man replied, stepping forward. The yellowed light made his blue shirt appear faintly green.

Kirk pulled his eyes away from the familiar color, and met eyes almost as blue as his. _Almost_. "What are our available courses of action, Mr. Mitchell?"

The man groaned quietly in thought, scrubbing his chin and mashing his cheeks and pulling on his lips. "Well... Mr. Sulu? What's the energy level of the other ship's at?"

"An even fifty." Sulu replied calmly. "But, if they stopped sending stand-by power to their invisibility shielding, they'd shoot up to about seventy-five or eighty."

"Sewenty-sewen." Chekov corrected, muttering more to himself as he continued solving mathematical problems that would send a mathematician-professor's head spinning.

Gary sighed to himself again. "What's the closest Starbase from here?"

"Starbase Ten." Sulu answered again. "About an hour at Warp Three."

Gary nodded, eyes distant as he focused on a piece of flooring. He wet his lips, not even blinking as his mind audibly clicked and clacked, like cogs in a grandfather clock. "We could fire on 'em, bursts on every weak part of their shielding and vulnerable parts of the ship." he said at last. "Or, we could try and make it back to the Starbase, but Romulans fight dirty and would probably shoot us in the aft."

_Not bad._ Kirk shrugged to himself. "What about our oxygen? It takes energy to shoot and energy to run. Romulans don't take prisoners." _Why do they sound an awful lot like Klingons? Even their ships sound alike._

"Worst comes to worst, we could always self-destruct." Gary snorted, shaking his head at the comment.

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Do you find that funny, Commander? Because I certainly don't."

The man's less-than-Kirk's-blue eyes widened as he quickly shook his head, straightening his face. "No, Captain, I don't. But, you wanted _all_ available options. Personally, I'd say shoot while their shielding was low."

"Very well." Kirk nearly bit. "We'll try that."

The order was given, and the Helmsman sent out rapid bursts of photon torpedoes, breaking the dam to an all-out firefight. The solitary Romulan Bird-of-Prey shuddered, shields visibly taking the strain of the shots, lights blinking on and off in portholes and viewing windows.

Sulu's hand lifted away from the controls. "Their shields are down to fifteen percent sir."

Jim nodded, turning towards the Second in Command. "Mr. Mitchell, what no-"

"Keptain!" Chekov cried from his scanner and navigation monitors. "Keptain, the Romulans are firing!"

Hands braced on both sides of the helm as the _Enterprise_ began to spark and fritz, Sulu shouted over his shoulder, "Shields at sixty perecnt and falling. Fifty-five, fifty, forty, thirty-five, twenty-"

A large explosion shook the bridge to its core, fire spraying out like great tongues from the spout of a flamethrower, and electrical sparks seemed to mock the stars outside. The viewing screen revealed nothing but a whirling, spinning mess, like the ship at warp speed, as the _Enterprise_ combusted from the inside out. Finally, having spun out of control, the air having been consumed by flames, and the ship managing to implode, all went black.

_Game over._

The red lights blinked as everyone took a breath, the lights switching back on like a lever being thrown. Jim rubbed against the headache blooming in his temples, swearing that the last simulation hadn't been this hard.

_It really wasn't that bad._ he tried to tell himself. _He did good with the situation. _"Okay." he breathed to himself, wondering why he was so out of breath. "That went pretty well."

Gary lit up like Christmas lights on the Fourth of July. "Yeah?" he asked.

"Exactly the way I would have done it." Jim forced a smile onto his face. "Keep an eye on your PADD for the next week, you'll get a message if you've been chosen."

The white-blonde man gave a lazy salute with two finger. "You bet, Captain."

Jim waited just long enough for the Gary to be far enough down the hall before slumping against the back of the chair, sighing. He pinched his nose again. "Was it just me," he pondered out loud, "or did that go terrible?"

Lieutenant Uhura, having been present but have had no part other than being a pretty face in the background, shrugged lightly. "It didn't seem too bad to me."

The captain could only hum, breathing again. If that guy really did act like he did, Jim must be exhausting to be around. "He did nothing wrong?"

"I'd say that went pretty well." Sulu stated from the front, having spun around in his chair and spread his legs to keep it from turning back. "I swear to God, it was like having two of you on the bridge."

"So it wasn't just me." Jim mumbled from behind his hand. Maybe it had been just him feeling poorly about the simulation. He hadn't been sleeping well, maybe he was just crabby and pinning it on this Mitchell guy because he was in the right place at the wrong time. Or was it the wrong place at the right time?

Jim groaned to himself, pushing his hands against the arms of his chair to rise up. _If anyone needs me,_ he groused inwardly as he headed towards the door,_ I'll be in the hospital. With a headache._

The Commutations officer and Helmsman exchanged glances as Captain Kirk stormed from the psuedo-bridge, the doors sliding shut behind him.

* * *

><p>"You can't go in there."<p>

Jim halted, hand halfway to knocking on the door, when the voice from behind made him jump clear out of his shoes and put stripes on his socks. "Jesus, Bones!" he hissed, glaring at the medical figure (gussied up in those hilarious ground-side, snowy white scrubs). "You nearly gave me a frickin' heart-attack!"

McCoy shrugged nonchalantly. "Well, here's a pretty good place to have one, if ya were so inclined."

Jim's glare became more pointed and playful. "Shaddup." No sooner had the word left his mouth, his smile fell and a frown creased his forehead. "Now, why can't I see Spock? I promised him I'd be over every day."

"That Healer's finally showed up." Bones stated. "I can't even head in until they're done in there, unless I'm paged 'cuz 'e screwed something up."

Well, that showed just how much the doctor put his faith in Vulcan mind hoo-doo. Jim slumped dramatically, shoulders flopping forward as he fell against the wall. "How long is it gonna take? I've already wasted most of the visitor's hours."

"Ya didn't waste nothin'." McCoy assured him. "He came early this morning and they've been at it ever since."

Jim paused, blinking up at the doctor. "At what?"

Scoffing McCoy lifted both hands in ignorance. "Lord only knows. For all we know, they could be in there talkin' 'bout what's logical an' what isn't an' how annoying we little humans are. This Healer Seteth has asked for _absolute privacy_ until he _summons forth _for somebody." Bones snorted again, sniffing irritatedly. "Guy looks older than dirt, hunched over and white beard 'n everythin'. I'm surprised the guy wasn't wheeled in on an air-chair."

Kirk could only stand there, waiting for the rant to begin to subside before breaking in against the tirade. "This Healer's got ya really riled up, huh?"

"Damn right." McCoy growled. "And, with my office back on the ship..."

Jim laughed, finally understand the ulterior answer of the good doctor's agitation. "You can't get to your liquor." he finished for McCoy. He slung an arm over the other man's shoulder. "How 'bout we go out for some drinks, just you and me? I know a little place not to far from here."

"I'm sure ya do." McCoy stated, shoving the warm arm creasing his freshly pressed scrubs. "My shift doesn't end for another thirty minutes, and I doubt you'll get in there anytime today."

Jim's face fell, rubbing absently at the shoulder that had been so thoughtlessly pushed away. "You're sure about that?"

"Positive." McCoy groused. "I'll take you up on that offer, bein' if you can wait long enough."

Sighing, the only thing Jim didn't do was shuffle his foot and stick out his bottom lip. Or, Leonard couldn't tell if the latter was there or not as Jim's head was bowed. "I guess there's nothing to hurry up for now." He turned, starting to head down the hall before turning back. "Thirty minutes, you said?"

Bones nodded. "Yeah, sure, kid."

Jim absently returned the nod, picking his way down the hall. McCoy sighed. _Damnit kid, only you could get lovesick over a pointy-eared computer._ He cast one more glance towards the looming door, curious and anxious. Shaking his head, McCoy turned away for the next room on his rounds. There was no point dilly-dallying when there was nothing he could do.

* * *

><p><em>Knock, knock, knock.<em>

Despite the aged warp curling his fingers and the wrinkled skin distorting the back of his hands, his knock was strong and carried deep into the moderately sized home. He didn't need to knock again, even if he desired to do so to indulge an illogical need to annoy the homeowner, as his ears could pick up the quiet pads of someone coming to answer. A few quiet beeps, and it slid away to reveal a face that would never show its surprise, but instead its mutual curiosity at his unusual visitor.

"Selek." Sarek said the name the way one might read the confusing wording of a scientific name - dryly and like he wanted to say a different one instead.

"Father." the aged Vulcan replied, schooling his lips to keep from twitching at the title. He did, however, raise an eyebrow as Sarek was answering his own door. It was very late, though, so perhaps the housekeeper had turned in for the night. "I wish to speak with you."

"My house is always open." Sarek spoke the common phrase just as dry and even as he had said Selek's name.

Selek raised an eyebrow once more. "Strong words," he stated as he stepped inside and let the cold air of the night be shut out behind him. "Strange that you should invite so readily your son of another world in so easily, yet turn away the one that needs you most."

Sarek, having led his guest into an adjoining sitting room adjacent to the foyer, paused. "It should have been evident that your visit would contain an ulterior motive."

"It should have been." Spock Prime agreed, cooly clasping his hands in his lap as he claimed the closest seat. The older Vulcan allowed himself a very human sigh. "It is common knowledge that you are quite busy, but a surplus of tasks do not make up for a lack of action. Spock, your son of this world, has never asked you for anything. I should know." Selek added with only a hint of amusement, just to make the full-blooded Vulcan 'feel' uncomfortable. "Even now Spock has said nothing of himself or asked for your assistance in any way."

Sarek clasped his hands behind his back, gripping his left wrist with his right hand. "How have you come into this information?" he asked calmly.

"Besides the fact your son of this world and myself share a common DNA and mentality, and I know what he changes his codes to?" Selek raised a greyed eyebrow. As Sarek remained still and broodingly silent, _But Vulcans do not brood,_ he continued. "A very talkative, and quite upset, Captain Kirk informed me early this morning of Commander Spock's condition and admittance to Starfleet General."

"One would have suspected that, sharing a common past, you would have simply known this predicament would arise." Sarek's voice had gained a cold tinge, even colder than his normal bland tone.

"Father," Old Spock scolded quietly, "you are being unfair. You know as well as I that everything has changed, even myself by a certain extension. There are some parallels that match both mine and this world's shattered timelines, but there are more differences than similarities. Spock's mental injury and loss of telepathy are not one of those similar coincidences." Old Spock finished firmly.

Sarek had claimed his own chair, mirroring his son's of other universe posture, gripping his hands tightly in his lap. "I am no mind healer, there is little I could do."

"Bullshit." Selek spat, pleased at the wide-eyed reaction he received. Being old, Spock Prime had found he was given more leeway than most, and, due to his hidden heritage, he was able to enjoy the surprise of others at his illogical, emotional outbursts. "There is plenty you could do to offer assistance. You simply have chosen to not to."

"You desire an answer to why I have declined." Sarek stated calmly, eyes locked on the older Vulcan, his son. "You shall receive none."

"Spock deserves an answer." Selek replied just as cucumber cool as his younger father. "If not his counterpart, than the real Spock on the planet Earth suffering quietly because he knows you, perhaps better than I." he sniffed.

Sarek's eyes seemed to narrow, when in truth they remained just as open as the had the duration of the conversation. "Spock can and will heal, and he can return to Starfleet once he has done so. He is Vulcan; he will endure."

"Is he?" Selek pondered, head tilting to the left. "The one constant between myself and my counterpart is our childhood - too Vulcan to be human, too human to be Vulcan. All that has once made Spock Vulcan has been stripped of him. There is no prosthetic that can assist the mind, no medicines to return telepathy. His telepathy has been paralyzed, making him a danger not only to himself, but to others as well. He will project emotions, he will feel others in ways he has not been taught to control, and he will no longer be able to establish any kind of mental link with another."

"My link with my son is still in place." Sarek argued evenly.

Selek very nearly rolled his eyes, but felt that the motion might be too much for the pure blood in the room to handle. "A link can be formed with any kind of sentient being. _Spock_ will not be able to establish them himself."

"There is a healer evaluating Spock as we speak." Sarek stated, three steps away from Vulcan-ly sending Selek from his home. He was not totally oblivious to his son's condition. As Ambassador, certain rights were his, and one of those were he could pull as many strings as he wanted to receive information not usually viewed by the public. Young Spock's medical records had been pulled up for a few minutes, and viewed briefly. "While he contains any kind of psi-ability, there is hope of stimuli returning his previous powers."

The older Vulcan had risen, creaking silently in his joints, from his seat. It was quite obvious his welcome had been worn out the moment his foot had crossed the threshold. "Hope, father?" he asked quietly. "A human sentiment."

Sarek fell silent as the quiet pads of Selek's shoes sounded farther and farther down the hall, until the old man had let himself out. Sarek remained seated long into the night, hands becoming whiter and whiter the harder he clenched them.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note - Last chapter, I was told in a very kind way that my Kirk seemed rather prejudiced when going through the resumes for a new SIC. I answered that person via an Author's Response, but I've given it some thought and wanted to add one more thing. During the Star Trek Movie, I believe it was the Motion Picture, Kirk's exact words were 'I want a Vulcan on the bridge'. Just pointing that out as a final fact. :) Thank you.<span>

I apologize for the crap quality of this chapter. It's been a tough week, and I finished this chapter fighting a migraine/cluster headache-thing after spending half the night shaking on the bedroom floor with the headache 100 times worse because I didn't know what else to do and hate taking medicines. (The family dog was quite happy to occupy my bed, though) And school... but, what are excuses? The chapter sucks, simple as that.

Self-beta'd, all mistakes are my own. Please read, rate, review, reprimand, etc.

I do not own Star Trek, or Mr. Spock (sadly), or Jell-O. I live near the town where Jello-O was invented, though...


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

><p>The world within was once bright and vivid with colors. A natural, third dimension wrapped itself about images and made them appear life-like. Speaking was second nature, words flowing through his mind better than they did coming from his mouth.<p>

Now, looking through his mind's eyes, everything was flat, as if the vivid world he had once memorized had been transformed into a flannelgraph. Colors were dim and dull, hazy and white and grey like fog, with the occasional burst of color. There was no medium setting of light, flashes either strobe-bright or dying candle flame dim. And, a choking muteness seemed to latch itself about Spock's internal vocal cords and harshly pulled them tight in a phantom case of laryngitis.

He could feel the Healer probing his mind, tendrils and airy whisps floating through the highways and byways that was his brain. A strong male presence, one other than his own, flooded his every sense, but he could not recall a name if it had been written on a piece of paper and held before his face. Only a faint impression of _healer_, _helper, doctor_ flickered in and out like the colors. Brief spurts of speaking, like one muttering inside of their heads, startled Spock no matter how hard he tried to keep it from showing.

_"...shields... stro-... gone..."_

_"Empathy... no more.. .-athy."_

_"Spock, do n-... fear... peace... be cal-"_

He tried to answer, tried to convey some kind of thought, but could not tell if he had succeeded or not. Carefully disguised emotions, like medical concern and worry, were masked by strong, ejected pulses of comfort only Healers ever contained. A natural empathy most Vulcans did not understand, and only felt under the gentle hands of a mind Healer.

It felt like days, weeks and weeks, and it very well might have been. Spock's inborn time-sense had been taken away with the rest of his telepathy, a stone-age sundial more accurate than any guess he could come up with now. The shadow could have rotated about the dial a hundred times before a clear whisper, as soft as a summer breeze, came through with crystal clarity. If the crystal had been obscured in a vat of goo, submerged in a pit of mud, and then covered liberally with cement.

_"I am withdrawing now, Spock. Remain at peace."_

Captain Kirk and Doctor McCoy had once invited Spock on shore leave with them on some kind of relaxation planet. It was unlike any kind of pleasure planet, unique in its rural theme and country-style picturesque quality. An entire planet turned into one great, big farm yard. Horses, as well as horned creatures not unlike a horse with a rhinoceros horn, and variations thereupon, spotted the rolling hills, while sheep and goats (and variations thereupon) grazed contentedly. McCoy and Kirk had wanted Spock to come and experience a hobby called 'fishing', which involved a detailed pole, even more intricate lures and bobbers, and gruesome hooks that were barbed and caught the fishes' inner lips.

Spock had refused, more content to watch and study the captured prey before it was released. The fish had fought, flipping back and forth and tugging on the near invisible lines used to reel them in. They had shaken and flopped in the Doctor's and Jim's hands, mouths gaping for liquid oxygen until the fight left their delicate bodies and they merely panted unproductively, gills splayed. Spock had thought it a poor, cruel sport, even if they did put the fish back afterwards - excluding the three or four the grown men had saved for dinner. Spock had, again, declined.

That mind retracting from his mind, those cold, wrinkled fingers pulling away from his fevered face, Spock suddenly understood how the fish had felt. Gasping for air, trying to understand as a whole new world other than its cool, dark one was thrust upon it. The pain that should have been a hook in his lip felt more like an anchor in his head. He felt paralyzed, limbs heavy as the never existed fight left him weak.

"Calm." a gentle yet tried voice soothed somewhere in the blurred darkness. "Breathe in and out, slowly. Very good." the voice continued on. A pause, the only sound in the room Spock's carefull breaths as he filled his lungs with the sweet air, trying to find a light in the darkness. "You may wish to open your eyes."

That... might work. Tiredly, Spock pried his eyelids apart, squinting in the too-bright shine of twilight. The hospital room was cascaded in a blanket of darkness, black and blue and grey casting long shadows in the dim ambient lighting. The first thing that came into view, the blurred world slowly taking form and less-blurred images, was a wizened face peering softly at him. It was clear for only a moment, and then began to fade. The darkness and shadows, like scraggled fingers pointing towards the underworld and at the invisible, reached into Spock's hazed eyes, murkying the universe surrounding.

The Healer besides the biobed had expected nothing less as Spock's eyes slid shut against his will, and the monitors about slowly slipped into a nocturnal setting. Healer Seteth felt rather much like joining his young patient in slumber, the longest and most trying meld of his entire experience sapping him of what strength the aged had left. He slipped a shaking hand into a pocket of his long robes, trembling from a surplus of elderly ailments such as low blood sugar and slight dehydration. He withdrew a small pager, pressing a single button on the side before taking a soothing breath, and rising.

The door slid away, flooding the room with the hallway's light and illuminating the pale body laying bedridden. A moment later, the gloomy darkness washed back like the sweep off a wave, and all was silent except for the solitary beep of a monitor.

* * *

><p>McCoy drummed his fingers against the worn bedside table. He was a doctor, but even a doctor couldn't live full-time in a hospital. He had found a not too crummy motel a few days ago, reserving a room until he could finally occupy it. It wasn't much, but there were no mouse droppings in the corners or bedbugs in the sheets, it was relatively clean, and McCoy had found a complimentary pack of rubbers in the single bathroom drawer left there by the previous attendants.<p>

A holo-vision fizzed before him, the local news channel sometimes coming in and sometimes not. Brief spurts of weather, local theft, sports, and school drama jumbled about the static and digital images of news anchors. But, who really cared about a news station that had nothing to do with your own hometown? Leonard wasn't watching the holo-vision to begin with; he was focused on more important things.

To his left, the door to his mini-bathroom was beside the door that led outside. Not the most logical of set ups, but the latter door remained locked until he unlocked it with a keycard so he didn't need to worry about accidentally walking outside to take a leak. To his right, an offlined PADD rested were he had lightly tossed it on the opposite side of the bed. There was no need to consult it again, every single black on white word was burned into his memory, and he didn't even have that fancy eidetic memory.

That single, plastic coated, touch-screen PADD had been read and re-read and read again until the nearly unlimited batter power had run out. Now, the self-charging battery was doing its duty as McCoy's mind kicked in, taking off this way and that like a runaway train that had run out of tracks.

Healer Seteth had explained everything very carefully over a cup of heavily sweetened tea and raspberry-jam filled cookies, the most palatable food item to ever come from a hospital replicator. He had explained his findings, using technological terms such as _electricity_ and_ computer motherboard_ and _fried_.

Spock's mind was very much like a computer motherboard, the control center of the entire nervous system. If the body was a single cell, then the brain was the nucleous. The phaser shot had acted the way a lightning bolt striking an old-style television set would have reacted - frying out the circutry and overloading the system until it was unusable.

The telepathic parts of Spock's mind, as well as overloaded synapses leading into places such as the vision and motor control sections of the brain to a lesser extent, was completely shot - no pun intended. While the damaged circuits and wires of a television set could be taken out and replaced, chunks of the brain could not. The damage to Spock's eyes and hands and could be fixed with time, patience, and medicine. The damage connecting to something that couldn't even be seen, a sixth sense that - in itself - was a sense, was irreversible.

_"When he is stronger, he will be shown how to shield his mind and block his empathy." _Seteth had spoken. _"Similar to the way humans with psi-abilities are taught how not to read minds. They have no control over their psi-abilities, only ways of blocking it."_

_A band-aid solution_. McCoy's mind filled in for himself, and he sighed as he tapped his head against the plastic headboard. As a doctor, McCoy would personally vouch for a can of spray-on bandages, and even the old-fashioned stick and peel ones still included in emergency kits. But, this was like sticking a butterfly bandage over a severed carotid artery and saying everything was just fine. The little sticker wouldn't do anything for hemorrhaging, but it stuck and kept the pooling blood at bay for a little while.

Jim didn't know yet. He knew there was a high chance that Spock's telepathy would never return, and he knew there was a very small chance that it might come back with time or help. He didn't know the final verdict, anxiously waiting like a best friend or sibling or lover by the comm. for a call from McCoy. As nervous as someone whose close family member had a dark mass in his brain, a nervous wreck until the closing answer came.

"Ohh..." Bones moaned, scrubbing his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Of all the people he could have gotten stuck with, it just had to have been _the_ James T. Kirk and _the_ Spock What's-his-name. _"_I shoulda left your ass back in that hanger, 'stead of draggin' ya along."

Damn Jim Kirk and his puppy dog eyes. He always got his way; even if a whole damn planet was being attacked and imploded, he _still_ got his way. It was manipulation without manipulation, a golden heart and warm smile and a sincere congratulations that made one feel bad for a job well done. If only he hadn't looked back! If only he hadn't his own scary genius mind that put Mudd Flea Vaccine and stow-awaying together.

Flopping out a hand, he groped about for the offending PADD and took down the diagnostic sheet. He pulled up a typical messaging board, forgoing the scrambling and secrecy for a simple message.

_'Meet me for drinks? Need to talk. -LHM'_

He waited a good five minutes before grumbling and tossing the PADD aside, no answer. _It's late, he's probably in bed._ Fifteen minutes later, a chime vibrated the device until it almost shook off the bed. McCoy snatched it up before it could fall.

_'Sorry, was in the shower.' _Came the quick reply. '_Where you wanna go? JTK'_

Leonard paused a moment, tapping a callused finger against the warm plastic.

'_Coffee?_'

While it was late enough to drink the typical alcohol he and Jim were usually inclined to drinking, like the night before, he wanted a clear head tonight. The caffeine might cut in on some of his sleep time, but M'Benga was covering early morning shifts so McCoy could sleep in if he had to. He added a link containing directions to a little place not too far from either of them.

_'Meet me in five minutes. LHM'_

He shut off the PADD, not caring to check for Jim's last message. He grabbed a light jacket, tossing it over his shoulder and grabbing his keycard from the back of his pocket. Sliding it over the lock, the door slid away before locking him out once more. McCoy had never been one for stargazing, just barely passing basic astronomy back in the Academy. He was a doctor, not an astro-cartographer. But, glancing up at all those twinkling stars dotting the murky heavens like his daughter Jo-Jo's freckles, he couldn't help but notice that they had never seen so far away as they did at that moment on the cement step of a crappy little motel on the outskirts of San Fransisco.

* * *

><p>There were very few good coffee shops open past nine P.M. There were some, odd little places that dimmed the lights and pat little drums and recited free verse on a stool with a backlight over them, but nothing as quiet and friendly as an early morning café. Because of that single, solitary fact, Jim found himself on the receiving end of a glare as he happily masticated a doughnut and sipped a hot chocolate at a fast-food, commercial café.<p>

McCoy had himself a more adult coffee, hand wrapped around the protective paper as he watched Jim stuff another bite of Boston Crème in his mouth. "I thought I'd put you on a strict diet." he said as he pointed an accusing finger at the chocolate covered pastry, oozing yellow custard on a napkin.

Using his thumb, Jim quickly wiped away a glob of thick, rich crème off the corner of his lip and licked it off. "Shore leave, Bones. And, if it'll make you feel better, I'll get one of those whole grain bran muffins, too."

"Just suck on some insulin, why don't ya?" McCoy groused, taking a long drink of his black, heavily caffeinated coffee and rubbing his fingers against the heat-protector.

Jim rolled his eyes, wiping his sticky fingers on a brown, paper napkin. "Just teasing, Bones. The whole grain muffins taste like crap. The blueberry are the best." His teasing hit the other man like a rubber ball did a brick wall, ricocheting right back at him before falling flat. Jim sighed. "What did you call me down here for, Bones?"

A plastic PADD hit the table with a gentle _thunk._ Turning it towards himself, Jim could see a long list of names, most of them ending with Grayson.

"I thought we've been putting this off long enough." Bones stated, reverting to fiddling with the brown heat protecting paper.

"We haven't been putting anything off." Jim replied frowning at the list he was reading. "We've all had things to do, stuff to take care of..." His voice trailed off as McCoy lifted a furry eyebrow reminding Jim very much of a wooly bear caterpillar. "Can't we just say we've been busy to make it sound better?"

McCoy rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back. "I'm not calling them. I dealt with Sarek; _you _deal with these people."

"Fine." Jim shrugged, slurping some spilled cocoa off the white lid of his paper cup. "How bad could they be, right?"

"Brave last words." McCoy reminded him, scoffing as Jim shoved the last half of his doughnut in his mouth at once, nearly choking himself. "How'd that work out for ya, Jimmy?"

Jim made a little coughing noise. "Don' cal' m' tha'." he muttered, managing to swallow and grinning at Bones' groan of disgust. "Now," he smiled, "was there something else you wanted to talk to me about? We coulda gone over this tomorrow."

Reaching up, the doctor rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, yeah... This is about Spock."

The 'S' word seemed to have a magical property to it, a simple proper noun consisting of no more than five letters drawing more of Jim's attention than that honey twist doughnut beckoning from the glass case ever could.

"Yeah, sorry." the blonde man wiped the last of the sticky residue from his fingers and pulled the PADD closer to himself. "I should be paying more attention... Holy cow," he shook his head, "is there anybody _not_ listed in Canada?"

The doctor sighed, pointing a few out. "There's one if upper Vermont, two in upper New York, and one more in Montana."

Jim's eyes widened. "Montana? Didn't Amanda know anyone in, I dunno, say... the Sahara? Hell, even Nevada, some kind of desert-y place?"

"I don't think that's a word, Jim." McCoy rolled his eyes, irritation and annoyance quickly filtering into his blood much like the sugar was in Jim's.

"Sure it is." the delinquent at the table shrugged. "How the heck did she get used to _Vulcan _after growing up in the Arctic?"

"Canada isn't the Arctic, and- Damnit, Jim!" McCoy swore. "Shut up a minute and let me speak! I'm trying to tell you what that damned Healer said."

The sticky blonde with a brown rim on his top lip paused, entire body simply freezing. Only the involuntary motions of his body keeping his heart beating and blood circulating and diaphragm moving.

Jim swallowed against the over-sweetened taste of chocolate. "Bad news?"

The pause between question and answer only helped to kick Jim's heart up a few extra beats per second. McCoy fiddled with the brown protector in his cup some more, succeeding in only shredding cardboard shards in the white tabletop. "Well... not exactly. Not exactly good news, either." The doctor took a breath. "It's not good, but it's no worse than we thought."

"Are you purposefully being cryptic?" Jim scowled. "What the hell's going on?"

"His telepathy is totally gone." McCoy blurted, laying it all out on the table littered with his ripped paper. "He has some sense, but nothing he can establish or control. He can't form a link, only accept one. He can't fully block emotions, his own or others, but Seteth said there's tricks he can be shown later on to help with that. His empathy is still stronger than a normal Vulcan's, just as it's always been." He lifted a shoulder, feeling almost as defeated as he had been after ten hours of brain surgery and having done nothing any registered nurse couldn't have done. "Not sure if that's a blessing or curse yet... We're just gonna have to wait and see how all this plays out."

The doctor looked up, having realized he'd been staring at a discoloration on the table the entire time he spoke. Hazel green met harsh, icy blue, flinching inwardly at the accusation hidden behind those dilated pupils and the tight creases at the corner of Jim's eyeballs.

"So, that's it, then?" the captain snarked, a single finger boring into the screen of the PADD. "Spock's just screwed, either way?"

"No," McCoy's own eyes narrowed, "not at all. He just needs time to learn all this stuff again. Damnit, man, you don't put an amputee patient on a running track right after popping on a prosthetic. They need time to learn how to use their new tool, and the mind is a hell of a lot more complex than a wooden leg."

Jim could have sworn he had ordered Bones to never make up his own analogies ever again, but this time he couldn't bring himself to yell at him. He simply didn't care enough. "So, in the meantime, what are you gonna do?" he asked, a daring snit lacing the undertones of his voice.

"Whatever we can." McCoy shot back, the fire in his eyes and tongue fizzing out as soon as it rose. "Which, basically, means drug him the way we would a depressed psychopath on suicide watch."

Yet another analogy that would have put a smirk on Jim's face had it not been such a sore subject for the younger man. His own eyes were downcast, and the two of them must have made quite a morose picture to the other late-night coffee drinkers studying on their PADDs or chit-chatting with friends. "Will he ever be able to join 'Fleet again?"

Bones shrugged lightly, eyes lowered as the brown paper finally fell free from his cup, too shredded to be of any use anymore. The coffee had grown cold, anyways, and Jim's hot cocoa demoted to chocolate milk. "I dunno, Jim. There's nothing saying he can't if he can learn all this stuff; he doesn't need to be a telepath to work a tricorder or take a reading. It all depends on how he copes and heals and handles this new," he paused, swallowing against a sudden nasty taste in his mouth as he finished, "disability."

"But not on the _Enterprise_." Jim finished, his hands tightening beneath the table. "We'll be long gone by the time he can sign back up, maybe even finished with our mission."

"Maybe not the _Enterprise_." Bones agreed quietly. "But, there's plenty of other ships."

Jim rolled his eyes, blowing a raspberry with his lips like a chuffing yearling colt. "Yeah, right. What are the chances of the two of us getting assigned to the same ship, even if I ask for him?"

"With the two of you?" McCoy asked, tilting his head to the side. At the single nod, he snorted. "Pretty damn high, _especially_ if you ask for him."

The younger man only hummed, eyes on his laced fingers. "Does Spock know any of this yet? That 'assessment' went on pretty long."

"Maybe not to a Vulcan." McCoy muttered, but shook his head in reply. "Not yet. He's been out ever since that Healer left. The meld took a lot out of him, but he should be up sometime tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow." Jim pointed out with a half-hearted chuckle. "It's been 'tomorrow' for the past thirty minutes."

The doctor hummed as he sipped his cold coffee. "So it has." He glanced up as Jim pushed back his seat with a screech. "Where're you headed?"

"Bed, probably." Jim answered, just refraining from yawning or rubbing his eyes. He still had a small chocolate line on the upper half of his lip, looking more like an upset child than the worlds-famous starship captain he was. "I have to at least look more awake than Spock, even if I get less sleep than him."

McCoy bobbed his head in reply. Sleep: that was probably a good idea. He needed REM just as much as Jim did, probably more, and at least twelve hours of it. He lifted a hand tiredly in a feeble farewell as Jim left, trying to sum up the strength to do the same. But, sitting in a fast-food coffee joint known for their pastries, watching his best friend chomp one of those pastries down himself, and on the diet of a doctor, one always felt something wanting - like food. Maybe he'd just get a muffin for the walk home, those were much more healthful than the doughnuts. One of the blueberry, as the whole grain really did taste like crap. The blueberry, or the chocolate chip.

* * *

><p>It was always nice to have a visitor, except the times when it wasn't. Those times were usually composed of hectic, running about on crazy errand type of days, when the last thing you wanted was to clean house just for someone to come over and wreck it again. Or, in the occasion of an illness when you simply did not want any part of the world, even your own reflection in the mirror, to look back at the twitching heap one little germ had made you. That was, unless that illness brought one to a place of medicine, then a visit was usually heaven-sent.<p>

It was amazing how much one person could brighten up a room, especially if that person was Jim. His smile could have solved the world's energy crisis, had it not been resolved well before his birth. His laughing, sparkling eyes always put Spock at ease, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them. His voice carried more than sound waves through the air, they consisted of happiness and friendly jests that could warm even the iciest of souls.

A room simply lit up the second Jim's blonde head appeared, which was most likely why the hospital room felt as white and sterile as it did without him.

Jim Kirk was a busy man, he had an entire starship of people to run and care for. And now he was pinned with the responsibility of finding Spock's own replacement. It was selfish of him to long for that single human, and extremely unVulcan on him.

Spock didn't exactly sigh as he counted the large tiles of the ceiling for the fifteenth time that hour, but he didn't exactly take a contented breath, either. In absolute truthfulness, he was bored and lonesome and wished for something to do other than squint up at the ceiling and try to make out the lines dividing it. McCoy had suggested awhile ago, during a brief check-up, that he try turning on the holovision. While he could, there was nothing good ever on in the early noon, and Spock had no patience for the psuedo-drama of a soap opera. That, and it was difficult to see the small holovision screen, and the commercials during intervals were excessively loud and hurt his head.

Those two symptoms also took out reading and audiobooks.

So Spock lay there, entertained only by the whim of his highly limited imagination. But, even his thoughts were stymied. What was the point of planning a future when the present was so uncertain? Spock didn't know when he was going to receive a pair of glasses, let alone what was going to happen later on down the road.

The Vulcan desperately needing entertainment sighed again as he let his blurred vision track about the room. It was in doing that action repeatedly that Spock had learned he was dreadfully nearsighted, and paused as his fuzzy eyes landed on something equally fuzzy and brown.

It was the stuffed teddy bear Jim had brought his first visit, a silly sentiment that Spock had no idea what to do with. The last stuffed, polyester replica of any kind of animal he had owned had been a stuffed sehlat he had kept until his was four, in which the stuffed animal was tucked away deep within his mother's hopechest. The chest, along with the toy sehlat, was gone, nothing more than dispersed atoms torn apart and crushed within the impossible gravity of a black hole.

Spock squinted, an action he was loathe of enforcing when anyone was in the room. If he pinched his eyes hard enough, he could just make out the soft green writing across the tummy. The bear was very soft and lightly stuffed, making it squishy in the middle. Spock knew that first hand, having crushed it beneath his side as Doctor McCoy had found it humorous to place it beside his head as he slept. The moment Spock could see a PADD, he would immediately hack into the doctor's account and erase any... compromising photography he might possess.

Closing his eyes, Spock began another habit he had started over the last few days. Trying to reach out with his mind, trying to feel something, anything at all. Even feeling himself would have been a good start. But, no matter how hard he tried, he was no more telepathic than a psi-null human. His senses of smell and touch had evolved greatly, his ears perking up more than they used to, and if his eyes had not been damaged, Spock assumed they would have been compenating for the loss of the sixth sense as well.

An interning doctor for Starfleet, trying to earn his degree in xeno-biology, had asked him how it felt during a quick assessment under Dr. McCoy's cold, harsh glare that even Spock could make out well. The most accurate he could answer had been to compare it to being struck blind, deaf, and mute internally, still possessing the actual senses, but lacking in all at the same time.

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

The calm Vulcan did not start, but his heart picked up at the sound. Only one kind of person knocked - visitors. And, only one person in the world had that unique tap against a surface, a strong hand used to being curled and striking things - Captain Kirk.

As quickly as he could, Spock reached over for the release lever on a call remote connected to the bed, resting neatly on the corner of a bedside tray. Laying back slower than he had sat up, he turned to meet the smiling eyes of Jim. Or, perhaps not so smiling, as a distinct crinkle around his eyes was missing and the curvature of his mouth was somewhat lacking. The smile he wore did not quite reach his eyes, or his voice.

"Hey, sorry I'm late." the blonde man apologized, stepping in to let the door shut behind.

Spock shook his head. "No apology is necessary, Jim."

The visitor only hummed under his breath, hands clasped first behind his back and then his front before falling to his sides. Jim nudged the chair in the room closer to the bed, plopping down and shifting from left to right, hands folded in his lap, until he had found a position that looked even more uncomfortable than the darkness shadowing his Captain's eyes.

"Spock..." the Captain started, lifting his eyes for only a moment. "I got to talk with Bones, and," he paused again, "there's somethings you need to know."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note - Aaaannnnddd a lot of you are gonna hate me now.<span>

Let's walk through this logically, shall we? Spock was SHOT in the HEAD. A LAZER BEAM went through his SKULL and INTO HIS BRAIN. In his telepathic part of his BRAIN, he was HIT with a PHASER. See? Perfect sense.

And if you still want to argue 23rd century, let me point out 2 things.

1.) In TOS Menagera (cannot spell that to save my life) where Pike is radiated and injured and they take him back to that Thelosian planet, that is the ONLY way to help him. So, 23rd century medicine isn't all that. It's great, but it's not all that. They could keep him alive, and his brain was just fine, his body was in such a vegetative state there was nothing to be done. (I guess Spock's vice-versa).

2.) If 23rd century medicine and technology was all that, explain Chekov. He has an obvious speech impediment (Russian's don't pronounce 'V's like 'W's if you listen to real Russian accents speak English). A lot of aliens with weird accents go to Starfleet, but their hi-tech computer couldn't understand a human with an impediment? And, there's no speech therapists in xeno-linguistics for those aliens (and/or humans) learning Standard? Speech apraxia and impediments are just skipped over when it comes to curing things, and tech is biased? Just saying, big plot hole there, so there is a logical explanation for Spock's condition not being completely curable, as a simple impediment seems to be unhelpable as well. (Hurray for loopholes!)

I do not own Star Trek, I still do not own Mr. Spock. And references to any person, place, or thing - living or dead - just might be intentional.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

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><p><strong>Before note - As the reviews cross over the 50 mark, I must pause and reflect over how little I've actually written to be so well-received! I thank all of you - especially missBAMF for the challenge idea - for your wonderful reviews and points, and we haven't even reached Chapter 10 yet. I was so surprised at how friendly this little KS Community was, compared to Fanfiction dot net. Once again, thank you, and please enjoy. Or, you know, don't.**

**I also apologize now for the short length of this chapter and the poor quality. For a list of petty excuses, see Author's Notes at the end of the chapter. **

* * *

><p>For a man who really didn't have any family to speak of, Spock sure had a hell of a lot of relatives. Amanda's parents, a Grandma Charlotte and late Grandpa John, the former closer to eighty than seventy, were obviously a poor choice. Especially as the elderly lady resided in upper Alberta, the furthest away from the rest of the family. Most of them seemed to group together in Ontario and Québec, as nice and snug as one in an icy wasteland could ever be.<p>

Jim had looked up some pictures of Canada, having never visited there before. There seemed to be a type of summer, flowers and green grass and shoots and sprouts, but, mainly, there was a lot of snow. Snow and ice and sleet and freezing rain and blizzards and polar vortexes - which were basically blizzards from Hell. It looked like, at least from the pictures, if you didn't break your neck slipping on a patch of ice, you were snowed in your house until you suffocated from lack of fresh oxygen.

Anyways, seeing as the first person on the list was out, that still left about a half-dozen first cousins, almost a score of second cousins, and a handful or two of third-cousins still considerable on the sheet of relatives. Plus, two aunts and three uncles, all married and with children either married or close to that age of their own, the amount of people Jim had to go through made picking a First Officer seem like childsplay.

_Speaking of First Officers..._ Jim's head hit the table with a thunk, sitting crossed-legged on the floor of his large hotel room. National news droned on the holo-vision, worried about viruses and attacks and space exploration. Traffic blared on the streets below, a traffic jam picking up in size the louder air-cars honked their horns and drivers shouted at one another.

The world was full of problems, but none seemed quite as heavy as Jim Kirk's. Lazily, he brought down the endless list of Graysons, pulling up his electronic mail, pulling up a single contact. The choice had been made long ago, but the answer had yet to get our. Blame procrastination, laziness, or a sick, nauseous feeling of dread that welled up in the pit of Jim's stomach every time he thought about making the position official.

"Con-grat-u-lation-s." the blonde sounded out under his breath, fingers flying faster than his mouth. "Position... of... Fir-st Of-fic-er... yadda, yadda - send."

He jabbed the button, squeezing his eyes shut. The little byte of information, about to change someone else's life, was about to make his worse. He didn't want to watch as he ruined his own career, to speak nothing of Spock's. He wasn't being fair, it really wasn't all nine circles of Dante's Inferno, but when did James T. Kirk ever really care about fairness? Nothing 'fair' ever seemed to happen to him, why should he care if he was a perfect judge to others?

Without even thinking, a condolence letter was sent out to the other choice.

He shut off the PADD , rubbing his nose against the slight headache preparing to make itself known. He glanced towards the window, spotting a few stars beginning to pop up. It was late, but not yet bedtime. Perfect. There was one good cure for a headache, and that wasn't sleep or pills. Nope, the best cure was a few good friends and plenty alcohol.

* * *

><p>This was exactly what he had needed. The smoke, hanging in the air like clothes on a line, spread throughout the room and seemed to whisp about the hanging lights like ghostly moths. An ancient country song played from somewhere, unintelligible except for the distinct twang of a guitar and the occasional pluck of a banjo string. A crowd of beer-drinking people congregated about a holo-vision, cheering or groaning and occasionally cursing from time to time as they watched a football game.<p>

Jim had never cared much for football, but drinking with Scotty (and Keesner), Uhura, Sulu, and the underage-but-we-won't-tell Chekov was better than drinking alone. The drinks were as unique as the people sipping them, if not cliche. Scotch and vodka seemed to be the number one choises, sparking an argument between the two who thought their own was better.

"Scotch was inwented by a little old lady from Leningrad." Chekov snorted, playing with a shot of clear liquid, cleverly disguised as water. "In Russia, we give it to the babies in sippy-cups when we can't find enough water."

Scotty only rolled his eyes, sending up his own worship to the gods of the stills, apologizing for the young man's insolence. "Have ya ever tried a snort, lad?"

"Well..." Chekov's face was quickly turning red, noticable even in the dim lighting of the bar, "not exactly."

Without further ado, Scotty quickly pushed his drink over to the kid, knocking Chekov's own glass of fermented potatoes away. Chekov stared at the brown liquid as if it were muddy water, his brown-grey eyes incredulous.

"Jus' take a sip." Scotty goaded, all but picking up the drink and forcing it into the Russian's mouth himself.

Playing with her own sweating glass of something Jim, sitting next to her, couldn't make out, Uhura sighed. "Just take a sip, Pav; he's not going to leave you alone until you do."

Pavel sighed, lifting the glass and giving it a tiny sniff. Frowning, he tasted the amber liquid. "Yech." he squinched up his nose, shoving it back. "Tastes like burnt cardboard... or hair oil."

Jim couldn't help but laugh at the disgruntled look wore Scotty's face as he claimed his drink back. He took a swig of his beer, content to just sit there and watch his friends. He took another sip, looking at the bottle as he realized it was empty. It had been his first one, and he was nowhere near drunk, he just hadn't been paying attention to what he had been putting in his mouth.

"Hey," he announced, pushing back his metal chair and standing up, "I'm gonna go up and get another. Can I grab anyone anything?"

It was just then Jim realized why one was never supposed to ask _that_ question. Even the most giving and caring soul would never asked what kind of alcohol their friends wanted. _Scotty wants another scotch, Chekov a vodka. Easy enough_. Jim shrugged to himself, pushing by someone balancing their own table of drinks, and a paper basket of hot wings. Maybe he should grab some of those too. No, no, focus before he forgot the rest of the list. _Sulu wants a gin tonic, and Uhura a Surian brandy... or was it a Sunrise? And, did Keesner say anything?_

It took a moment for him to realize he was leaning against the barcounter, wedged between a large-eared Ferengi and some kind of horse-faced, saggy-necked off-worlder. Only a voice from the other side, a hippy, busty redhead with an impatient pucker of her lips and Irish green eyes flashing with annoyance, drew him from his thoughts. "Are you gonna order something or just stare at my ass some more?"

Jim hadn't even realized his eyes had been staring at the rotund, tight jeans until the bar hostess had pointed it out, and he smiled. "Oh, yeah. Sorry 'bout that. I'm gonna need a little of everything." He started, rattling off his list as fast as his genius-grade, corn-fed mind could remember it.

The woman, either a genius herself or simply used to long lists of exotic beverages, had whipped out the drinks, mixing them the old fashioned way instead of letting a replicator do all the work, as fast as Jim could spit out their names. Staring at all the sparkling liquid, Jim realized he was going to need to take two trips. He picked up Uhura's drink, something pink and purple that mixed like water did with oil, with one hand, and the two shot glasses with two fingers.

"Watch those for me?" he asked as politely as he could, motioning with his shot-glasses hand at the remaining drinks. He gave a grin as the bar owner rolled her eyes, bobbing her head absent-mindedly. He turned around, quickly spotting his table.

He had taken two steps before he found himself flat on his ass, an invisible pulse radiating in his cheek and below his eye. The room spun, and for a moment, he thought he had wet himself. But, pee wasn't typically pink and purple, was it?

Blinking against the spin of the room, he looked up into a mirror. No, not a mirror, his hair wasn't that white-blonde. "Gary? What're you doin' here?" Speaking, Jim realized there was a definite slur in his voice.

Gary Mitchell stared down at the Captain, his grey-blue eyes flashing. Behind him, Jim could see his own table jumping to their feet and pushing against people in their haste. Gary held out a hand for Jim to take, and, had the room not been whirling about, Kirk would have noticed that there was blood on his knuckles.

"Sorry." Jim apologized, shaking his head and pinching his eyes shut. "I must'a... must'a walked into you. _God_, is it just me, or is everything kinda spinning?"

He opened his eyes just in time to see a fist collide with his nose, turning him around once. He stumble forward a step, neatly collapsing into something warm and squishy - Uhura's breasts. He grinned, chuckling under his breath as he looked up, arms wrapped around a thin, warm, and surprisingly strong waist. "I'm getting a sense of deja-vous, here. Oh," he groaned apologetically, sniffing harshly against a metallic tickle in his nose. "I got blood all over your boobs." He began to try and wipe the red spots away, harshly shoved away into Scotty's arms with a huff. After that, he decided he could stand on his own well enough.

Jim sniffed again, putting a hand beneath the red river flowing from his face, head tilted back. "What the hell was that for?" His voice might be demanding, but a dizzying, sense of _This has happened before_ flooded his thoughts. Even now everything seemed to blend together, the lights and smoke, the scent of his own blood mixed with hot Buffalo sauce, and the stickiness on his pants and hands with the sound of his own voice. But, last time, he had been the one against a group of... five? Maybe? His head was spinning to fast to count straight.

"I've been looking all over for you." Gary Mitchell spat. "Got your message. You don't know what you're doing; what you're turning up."

"Message?" Jim tilted his head, nearly choking as the acidic blood in his nose started to slide down his throat. He teetered a moment, sniffling, trying his hardest to think. A strong hand from somewhere behind steadied him, gripping his shoulder. But, despite the hand and support, it was was pretty damned hard to think when your ears were ringing and your head pounded in tune to the Macarena. "What message?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Kirk." Gary's fists clenched, stepping forward. "You're passing me up as First Officer! Not even giving me a proper chance!"

At the same moment, Scotty and Sulu mirrored him, stepping towards the threat. Jim lifted a hand, holding the dogs of war at bay. He would have pinched his nose, trying even harder to think, had his hand not currently been in use as a dam against his nostrils. "You had your chance, same as Thelin. I just don't think we'd work well together. It's not you, really. It's me." Behind him, he could practically feel Uhura shake her head.

"You don't know what the fuck you're doing." Gary growled, deciding to risk yet another step. "I outta beat the shit out of you, show you what I can _really _do."

"I would'a do that, lad." Scotty's voice was calm, calmer than Jim had ever heard. The man, normally as hot headed as Bones and passionate as the Captain, was scary as the Devil himself when not so much as a tremor marred his words. "I'm half-drunk an' a good deal heavier than yerself. An', this laddie 'ere thinks he's some kind o' ninja. I don' think ya stand half a chance."

Jim wondered, faintly, where Chekov and Keesner were. But, as Jim spied a second shadow behind the Scotsman and a brown, wet paper towel appeared in the corned of his eye, both were cleared up. Uhura was currently trying to keep the bar tender from calling the police, as the last thing Jim Kirk needed was a cop to get one look at Jim's list of past offences and get the wrong ideas. Her talented tongue seemed to be working quite well.

God, Jim loved his crew. Screw that, he loved the little clique-y team the high ranking officer of the starship _Enterprise_ has become. He loved ever bit of their blurred, streaky forms, even as Scotty chased the Gary guy out of the building and into the street. His nose was still bleeding, but red was the color of love, wasn't it? The color stained Uhura's blue civilian clothes, tight jeans and her light blue shirt even tighter. Man, wouldn't he love to make love with her?

Unaware that he was weaving on his feet, Chekov looked rather worried behind him as Keesner followed Scotty and Sulu, the both of them,leaving Uhura at the counter and Chekov to deal with the captain. _If red's the color of love,_ Jim thought, _then what's black?_

His question would remain unanswered, except for a faint "Ai-ee!" exclaimed behind him as his noodle legs finally decided to go completely gelatinous. Black clouded the outer edges of his vision, like spirits of death flitting to and fro. He wasn't sure what would be worse, giving in and passing out or fighting like the rock star badass he was. Thankfully, Jim wasn't given a chance to choose as he suddenly found himself plopped in a chair and a handful of dry, crinkled paper towels spread out before him.

Minutes ticked by, Jim slowly gaining more and more awareness of his surroundings. He could feel the sticky blood irritating his skin, and he tried not to lick away the obnoxious blobs drying on his lips.

Jim breathed out, trying to laugh away the worry lacing the air like a bad smell. Tenderly pressing his face, he flinched. "Does it look as bad as it feels? I though he just got my cheek."

Uhura, dipping one of the clean paper towels in a glass of ice water, held it out for the captain. "It's... not atrocious."

She made a light fist, pressing her knuckles against the swelling and ignoring Jim's pathetic cries of 'Ow, ow, ow, holy shit, ow!' Her hand, smelling softly of lavender cream, if Jim's nose could be trusted, covered from just below his cheek, over the corner of his eye, and onto his temple. The entire path beneath her hand was beginning to bloom a lovely shade of purple, similar to color of the plant used in Uhura's hand cream. "He got you pretty good, though."

As soon as the linguist removed her hand, Jim began to try and clean up his face. By the green tint on Chekov's cheeks, he was probably doing nothing more than swirling the blood around.

"I think he broke my nose." he muttered beneath the napkin and the throb of his face. "Does it look crooked?" God, his nose couldn't be crooked! His cute, ruggedly handsome face wouldn't be able to compensate a permanently crooked nose! Not even his dazzling blue eyes could make up for an unseemly bump on the bridge.

Nyota rolled her eyes, humoring the blonde and looking at his bloodied face. "It looks fine, Jim. If you're not going to pass out again, I suggest going to the bathroom and cleaning up."

"I didn't pass out." Jim snorted, or tried to. His _broken_ nose was too clogged.

"You just about crushed Chekov, and would have had I not stepped in." Uhura pointed out, just as Sulu and Scotty-Keesner reentered the building. "Now, go clean up. Your face is making me sick."

"Yes, _mom_." Jim grinned, smiling broader at her huff of dismay. He excused himself, pushing back the chair and heading towards the bathroom. He might have pissed off one person and managed to get his face mangled all in the same day, but he had gotten to feel up Uhura - albeit, unintentionally. But, intentional or a half-fainted haze in his mind that had compelled him to try to clean off the blood from Uhura's tight shirt, it was a win-win in his book. Wasn't it lucky Jim always believed in winning situations?

* * *

><p>On the starship <em>Enterprise<em>, injuries were badass. Or, at least the ones you could walk away with and still walk unassisted, or not heavily assisted. A cut on the cheek from the knife of a violent tribal warrior was cool, especially if there wasn't a lot of blood or poison on the blade (unless the toxin had no effect, then it was badass times ten). Burns and nicks and gashes were all well earned battle scars, sometimes even worthy of keeping. A broken wrist from wrestling with a five-hundred pound Gorn was yet another example of manhood (or womanhood) at its best. And, black eyes? Black eyes were collected like baseball cards and flaunted like the rarest of the stack.

But, that was on a starship. On a planet, for some reason, an injury was looked on like the Klingon plague. Within the ship, one could strut in to the sickbay and plop themselves down on a biobed, showing off their hard earned injury to the other patients, each one trying to outdo the next in gore and pain control. Walking into a hospital with a bloodied nose and black eye and mottled cheek bruise, Jim was looked at as if he were Typhoid Mary for xenopolycinthema.

As the door closed to the private exam room McCoy had snagged, Jim couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. He ignored the doctor's glare, forgoing the biobed for a backless stool in a corner. "I swear," he started as Bones reflexively reached for a dermal generator, "this time it really wasn't my fault."

"Mm-hm." McCoy hummed, unconvinced as he used the thimble of a tricorder, sweeping it over Jim's face. Nothing broken, so no bone re-knitter, but the contusions went deep. "Who the hell did you manage to piss of this time?"

"Gary Mitchell." Jim sighed, flinching as McCoy pressed the tender, swollen skin around his eye.

The bruising and shiner looked worse than the night before. Maybe he should have taken Uhura's advice and called McCoy before going back to the hotel, but Jim had decided against it. The guys - and Keesner - had all been watching, and what man admitted injury in front of other men? He really hadn't been in that much pain, probably from shock, but when it had started to hurt he'd simply popped a pill and went to bed. Then, when he woke up, he couldn't open his one eye, and that posed a slight problem.

Bones tilted his head in question, hands still moving the scanner for one last sweep. "Who?"

"That guy I was telling you about, trying out for first officer." Jim hissed, pushing away the hand probing his cheek some more. "Will you quit it? Didn't you just scan me, so what's with the hands? Anyways, I picked one last night."

McCoy's face, drawn in what Jim called his 'grumpy face', picked up the dermal regenerator. "What you mean to say is, instead of going over that list I asked you to, you did something else."

Jim shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah, then after I sent out the message I went out for drinks with Uhura and the guys. Oh, and Keesner."

"And you didn't invite me?" McCoy exclaimed, letting the pocket-light shaped tube singe the healing skin ever so slightly.

"Ah, damit!" Jim whimpered, shoving away the not-so healing hand with a scowl. "How the hell did you ever become a doctor? You should have your license revoked."

It was McCoy's turn to nonchalantly shrug. "I got good grades on my tests, and I keep your stupid ass alive." He gripped Jim's shoulder harshly and positioned him more towards the left, returning to his work. "Why didn't you ask me out? Do you think I _want _to live in a hospital?"

"I just figured, since you were on-call then, that you'd be more pissed if I'd asked you to come knowing you couldn't than if I didn't." Jim explained, sniffing against the tickle in his nose. Dermal regenerators always tickled and itched in the strangest places. He shifted away from the pen-shaped device, "Sorry?"

McCoy could only blink, trying to figure out if the dermal generator had affected the Captain's brain. "Sure, whatever, kid." he finally huffed. Setting aside his tool, he inspected his work the way an artist did his masterpiece. "Well... that's about as good as I can get. The bruises on your face are all taken care of, and your nose is just fine." He rolled his eyes as Jim let out a sigh of relief. "But, your eye's gonna be a little tender for the next couple o' days. I got down most of the swelling, but that contusion just doesn't want to go away."

"So, you mean," Jim's eyes widened, "I'm going to have to see Spock with a black eye?" Worse still, what if that blonde nurse down the hall saw?

McCoy rolled his eyes again. His daddy had always scolded him when he rolled his eyes, especially at his mother. Daddy McCoy had claimed that his eyes would roll clear out of his head if he did it too many times. Having been six at the time, it had scared the pants off of him. It hadn't been until after medical school Leonard finally learned the truth. "Yes, Jim, yer gonna have to see the Vulcan with a little bruise on your face. Just, don't be a complete asshat today, okay?"

"Asshat?"

"Spock's a little... self-conscious." McCoy finished as if Jim had never spoken, an excellent talent to develope.

Jim tried to pull off Spock's trademark move, the Eyebrow lift. Kirk swore that the Vulcans had some kind of patent on the action, and more facial muscles than a human. Jim absolutely sucked at trying to make one eyebrow go up. They both lifted or wriggled about like fuzzy, blonde caterpillars. "Spock? What did you do to him now?"

"I'm trying to fix him." McCoy shot back, slipping his tools back into their bag. "As best as I can. Now, get outta here before I decide to try and finish fixing your eye."

Not moving so much as a ligament, Jim remained planted to his seat. "Why don't you just fix my eye and be done with it?"

"'Cuz I don't want to, and you deserve any kind of pain it brings you." the _good_ doctor snorted. His bag was slung over his shoulder, hanging like a fanny-pack at his side. "But, if the pain's crazy, call me."

_So much for 'Mr. Mean-Guy.'_ Jim internally rolled his eyes. He hopped from the stool, pushing it back into the corner with his foot. Heading towards the door, he paused. "Want to go out tonight?"

"You know I'm on call, asshat." came the muttered rebuff.

Jim lipped the odd word again, shaking his head with a grin. "Love you to, Bones."

He quickly stepped into the hall, the door automatically closing behind him. Jim couldn't help but jump as something large, heavy, and metal struck the closed door behind him, mere nano-seconds after closing. He cleared his throat, straightening out his T-shirt, and snagged the closest elevator to the ICU.

* * *

><p>Vulcans could not pout. <em>Bullcrap,<em> every Vulcan Jim had ever met seemed to perpetually be pouting for all of eternity. That, or they were constantly constipated. Vulcans _claim _that they do not pout, would be a more accurate statement. Especially if that Vulcan was half-human and named Spock, but they really do pout.

"So..." Jim tried his hardest not to make some kind of witty, sarcastic remark. "Calling you Four-Eyes is definitely out?" _Damnit!_

Vulcans do not pout (so say the Vulcans), but they do glare. And, if frickin' Vulcans had frickin' lasers attached to their corneas, Jim would have been toasted like a campfire marshmallow. "They are a medical necessity."

"I know." No matter how hard he tried, Jim just could not wipe the smile from his face. Spock, with glasses. It was the most adorable thing Jim had ever seen in his life. And oddly arousing, not that Jim was thinking that way in any way shape or form. "So... did you get to pick out the frames?"

"I did not." Spock replied rather coldly, despite the high heat of the room and the slight green flush on his high cheekbones. "Now that I can see properly again, the next pair will be my own preference."

Jim hummed, studying the mopey sour-puss. "Get something pink, with kittens on the sides. My cousin's daughter had glasses like that, and she looked adorable in them." Another frickin' Jim-brand marshmellons would have been toasted in a fraction of a second. "Just kidding." he grinned. "Maybe... no, not green. That'd blend in too much. Blue, perhaps? Like a darker navy shade. And rectangular frames, I'm not seeing another one of those giant circle-shaped ones again."

Spock's head tilted to the side, very slightly, in question. "These are a standard military shape and size, Jim. They are quite uniform."

"And about three times too large for your face." Jim pointed out. "I think they're fine, for now, but something more... custom would look really good."

The half-Vulcan, with the blankets pulled only half-way up his waist and fully revealing the cream colored hospital gown, hummed quietly in consideration. "Perhaps."

Jim grinned, absently checking his old-fashioned watch. While rather obsolete, they looked good and actually served a purpose, other than enhancing his already dashingly good looks. Glancing at the even older-fashioned hands instead of a digital screen, his face fell. "Crap."

"Is there something the matter?" Spock inquired.

"Visiting hours ending ten minutes ago. I'll be kicked out if I'm caught in here." Jim stated, not that he cared about breaking rules. He quickly got to his feet, looking at Spock's glasses once more and returning the upward curvature to his lips. "See you tomorrow?" he asked quickly, already hurrying towards the door.

"James."

_Uh-uh..._ Nobody ever used the full name, unless he was in trouble. And, if there was a 'Tiberius Kirk' tacked to the end of it, he was in even deeper doo-doo. "Yes?" he tried innocently, turning on his heels and slowly swinging himself around.

"You never told me how you became injured." Spock returned, motioning towards a small area below the eye and rapping the glasses he was still getting used to. He quickly clasped his hands in his lap.

"Eh..." Jim drawled out, slowly backing towards the door. He continued to stretch out the sound, even as it began to change blends and pitch and Spock looked more and more irritated. His hand brushed against the key panel. "Barfight." he shrugged, quickly slappin the panel. "Cath ya' later!"

The last was tossed over his shoulder as he darted from the room, leaving a rather bewildered Vulcan in his wake.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note - I only own Mr. Spock in my dreams, but in my slumber they are reality. Any references made to any person, place, thing, or any kind of proper noun that seems vaguely familiar - alive, dead, or in the Nexus - is most likely on purpose.<span>

I do not own Austin Powers, and I retreat to my hermit cave in shame of putting in another reference. (But, com'mon, the frickin' sharks were really frickin' dolphins and dolphin kinds sounds like Vulcan.)

As a sixteen year old and, unlike Chekov, never having tasted alcohol before, I have no idea what Scotch or Vodka taste like. (But if my parents ever see my Google search, their gonna flip their lids.) I've always known that Vodka can be made from potatoes, but was unsure about Scotch. A movie called _Mister Rogers _claimed 'Vitalis Hair Oil' and a regular site said 'burnt cork and/or leather'. So... I probably botched that up. *mild shrug*

AUTHOR's ALERT - I apologize for the late post. An Aunt I never met before died and my mom had to go to their funeral, then my neighbor's mother died so I had to check on their dog for a few days, then there was a crap load of errands, then I got my first job, now we have to deal with NY state 'working papers' and physical... I just realized, on Friday, holy crap! I'm not done with the chapter!

That's the scariest thing to realize on Halloween - your fanfic post is not up yet. *gulps* Candy corn, anyone?

And, on a completely unrelated topic, did anyone see the Antares/Cygnus mission? Up about 6 seconds, *fiery inferno* crashes back down! Unmanned, but my mom ran away talking about Challenger mission flashbacks. Then that Virgin Airlines prototype plane/rocket-combo blew up and killed someone... and injured another. :(

Happy Space Week!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

><p>His fingers drummed against the faux-wood nightstand, ignoring the magnified gaze watching him with calm curiosity. Their daily get-together, or visitation as Spock so blandly put it, had been going so well - Jim evening managing to get Spock to take a peppermint candy. And, not one of the thin, circular, white ones that looked like pills and burned his taste buds, he had managed to get the Vulcan to take a sugary, sweet peppermint candy, the puffed kind with the red stripes that seemed to dissolve in your mouth like silk once you hit the middle. There wasn't much, or any, nutritional value in the candy piece, but Jim couldn't help but notice the high flush always on Spock's cheeks lessened greatly.<p>

But, that was an hour ago. The peppermint candies were long dissolved and nothing but their sticky residue remained on their lips and Jim's fingertips, and now nothing but silence hung between them like dirty laundry. Jim swallowed, fingering an empty wrapper in his pocket.

"So... you remember how I kind of promised to come visit you every day?" Jim started slowly, eyes not exactly on the glass covered brown ones as much as they were focused on a call-button behind Spock's head.

Had he been looking up, he would have noticed that Spock's still genius-grade mind had already deduced what Jim was getting at, and he hid the disappointment well. "My eidetic memory is one part of my mind that has not been affected." Spock stated. "I remember quite well."

As it turned, Jim didn't hide his flinch quite as well as Spock could hide his disappointment. "Well, I messaged some of your relatives back in Canada, and I've got some replies back, but they want a lot of information before they give an answer. I'm going to have to go up there for a day or two to clear some things up." His oasis blue eyes shifted downwards. "That's going to cut into our time together, and we already have so little of it left..."

"Jim," Spock's voice called his eyes up, meeting with the Vulcan's calm and rather amused face, "it would be both foolish and selfish of me to ever hold you to such a promise."

Sometimes, for all of his maturity, or at least his adult age, Jim looked like an overgrown, blonde five-year old. If he hadn't already been sitting, he would have been sure to shuffle his foot. Blue eyes were cast down and a white hand covered his neck. "So, you're not upset?"

Spock gave a small shake of his head, eyes shifting downwards. He didn't really look upset, and Jim's own eyes tracked to where the Vulcan's had settled, a grin pulling the corners of his lips upwards. He nudged an opaque, black plastic bag with his foot, letting it crinkle.

"Still haven't figured it out, yet?" he grinned lightly.

"I have not." Spock pseudo-pouted, eyeing the bag with equal amounts of scrutiny and curiosity.

_With just a hint of disdain_, Jim added to himself. "Com'mon, when I tell you, you're really going to be ticked that you didn't guess it." Jim pressed. "You're Vulcan...ish. You can usually tell what I've had for lunch just be looking at me."

Spock lifted a single eyebrow in retaliation. "That is no great accomplishment, Jim. There are usually remnants on your collar, or you fingers, or you lips."

The sticky, red dye still clinging to his fingers suddenly became all the more apparent. "No." Jim shook his head, earning yet another eyebrow. "I always thought it was by smell, or something."

"Not always." Spock's voice dipped lowly a moment. It lifted, "You seem to take, quite literally, the theory of transfer."

"Fine." Jim huffed, pushing the black bag back further with the toe of his shoe. "I'm a slob, and you don't get to see what's in the bag." He grinned as Spock's head turned away slightly, as if trying to hide the fact that he would be severely disappointed. "Deal?"

There was a moment's pause, light and playful, like old friends poking fun at one another. Jim quickly pushed those feeling aside, swallowed against them and corked them away. "No, Jim."

The Captain laughed, sighing dramatically as he reached down and pulled it up from beneath his legs. "Fine, but you dragged it from me." No eyebrows this time, but brown eyes did roll beneath their glass sheaths. "Move that tray closer, will you?" he asked, motioning with his head towards a tray table connected to the bio-bed.

The bag crinkled merrily as he pushed it aside. A brown wood case, made of actual wood, was lifted out. It crinkled and rustled as well, heavily wrapped in tape and clear cellophane. Slowly, with much wrestling as the cellophane wrap clung to Jim's hand and shirt like static electricity, the cherry-stained wood was removed from its wrappings. Next came a pair of twin clasps, a coppery gold that reflected the yellow sunlight into two disembodied blobs of sunflower on the white bedspread. More bio-degradable plastic sounded from within as two small bags were tossed onto the white tray table, followed by a board folded into quarters. It wasn't paper or cardboard, like the cheap kits Jim had seen, but some xeno-metal that bunched up like paper but smoothed out like metal and had no warp nor woof to be torn on.

Spock watched him quietly as he tore apart the twin baggies of game pieces with his teeth and haphazardly dumped the obsidian and ivory pieces out. "Chess?"

"Eh," Jim shrugged a shoulder, quickly stooping in his chair as a white bishop wobbled its way across the floor, "I played a bit at the Academy, found out I was pretty good." He grinned. "Not to brag or nothing. I wasn't sure if you played or not, but, if you hadn't, I figured I'd just teach it to you. You'd probably pick it up in about two minutes, anyways."

A cool, black piece was lifted by long fingers, awkwardly and in a limp grasp. The pieces were not merely the color of off-white ivory and shiny obsidian black, but seemed to be made of the same materials they mimicked. The lava rocks were buffed and polished into a perfect shine, faux-red jewels giving an eery demonization to the black horse shaped knights. The ivory pieces, also shined with the utmost care, held little aquamarines in the knights' eye sockets. It was nowhere near a chess set of silver and gold and precious jewels, the ruby colored gems probably dyed quartz, but it was far from plastic and paper and sequence.

"Tutoring will not be necessary." Spock stated, setting the rook he had been fondling in its appropriate place. The rest of the board had been set up meticulously. "I will admit, however, I have not played in quite some time."

Jim hummed, tucking away the wood case and creating a big ball of the plastic refuse. He tossed it towards a small, near-by wastebasket, getting all but one little wrapper in at once. _Darn. _"How long is 'quite awhile?'"

"My father taught me when I was five years of age." Spock clarified, silently accepting the black pieces and turning the white side towards Jim. "That was before my grandfather died, leaving my father to take his place at the Embassy. I do not recall playing anymore after that."

"Not a single Vulcan wanted to play a game of chess?" Jim's head tilted despite himself. It was rather difficult to believe that any Vulcan, no matter how snobbish, would turn up their nose at a game of logic and intelligence.

"Chess is a dominantly human game, one my father came across only while visiting Earth. My mother had no patience for the game, and the few times she tried to play she proved a rather poor opponent." the Vulcan stated calmly, looking slightly chagrined as he spoke negatively of the late Amanda. "You will have to excuse me if I am not exactly up to par."

"We'll just have to see." Jim stated, challenge coloring his tone as he carefully moved a pawn forward two places.

Spock eyed the board carefully, moving his own. "Indeed."

One and a half hours, eighty-two carefully made moves, one interruption by Dr. McCoy, and three human noises of irritation later, Jim carefully maneuvered a rook horizontally and captured Spock's red crested king. "Checkmate."

Brown eyes squinched in thoughts, darting back and forth over the board to see where he had gone wrong. "My apologies." he replied after several seconds of deep thought and strategy studying. "I have proven myself no better than my mother."

Jim couldn't help but chuckle. "Are you kidding me? The longest I ever got back at the Academy was forty-five minutes or so. You pretty much demolished that old score. And, if I hadn't thrown that last move at you, you would have had me in check in two moves."

Spock's face seemed to mirror Jim's comment, having depended heavily on those two moves. Jim smirked, moving his captured pieces and dropping them back on the black's side of the board. "Wanna play again?"

"Most certainly." came the stubborn reply. "I believe a 'rematch' is the proper term for this situation."

The pieces were quickly replaced, Jim switching the board around so that he played black the second time around. He claimed it was, "Only fair," but the dubious glance Spock cast him made him know Spock didn't believe a word he said.

And thus another game was started. Pawns were moved and lost, rooks moved forwards and sideways, bishops diagonally. Pawns were lost, Spock's knight, both of Jim's bishops, and one rook each joined the treasure cove of the enemies cache. Jim's eyes were furrowed, blonde eyebrows pressed into one thin strand and forehead crinkled as he studied the board, chin pressed into his hand. As Spock moved a knight, Jim's eyes flicked back and forth across the board, quickly setting up his strategy plan to counter. There were only so many ways that little horse could move, but if Spock would just put it just that much closer to his pawn, then he could-

A deadly fumble struck Spock's once nimble fingers, the delicate piece slipping between the long digits of his hand and clattering across the board. Jim's unmoved queen was taken out in the slide, and his king bumped ever so slightly from its original position.

He quickly ducked, grabbing out with his hand to catch the falling piece before it could begin the long descent to the floor. When Jim looked back up, it was to flinch. The green blush Jim usually acquainted with a low-grade fever or nausea had returned, spreading hotly across pointed ears and a smooth, white neck.

"You okay?" Jim asked, trying to hide the work in his tone by carefully placing the knight back in its original point before moving and adjusting his king and queen. He casually checked his watch, the antique he still wore regularly. "It's kind of late... if you'd rather I left, we can push this aside and save it for later."

He tried not to look towards those long, thin hands clasped as tightly as the could be in Spock's lap, knuckles white to keep from shaking visibly.

"It was entirely my fault." Spock swallowed covertly, fingers trying to fidget and remain still simultaneously. "Any physical therapy I am instructed through seldom last longer than an half-hour, and I have little use of my hands outside of that."

Jim quickly shrugged, feeling that the motion was overly exaggerated the harder he tried to act nonchalantly. "It's no problem, if you have to rest or..." he shrugged again, shoulder barely moving this time, "you know..."

"I should have known."

Jim's head darted up, looking away from the chess pieces he had been staring at in lieu of Spock, surprise evident in his eyes at the amount of spite lacing the lowered voice. "Known what? What'd I say this time?" _At least he can't strangle me, this time._ No sooner had the thought passed through his mind did Jim realize that was probably one of the most not-nice thing he had ever thought.

"It should have been evident to me that you would use my weakness against me." Spock's voice held a certain level of chastization that did not carry through to the rest of his face or impressionable, shining eyes. "You only desire to postpone the game because you know that your king will be in check within three moves."

It took a few moments for Jim to realize that his lower jaw was rather lax, and his mouth was open more than it should be. In closing it, he couldn't wrangle away the grin. "You are a devious little Vulcan, aren't you?"

"Most certainly not." Spock's Vulcanoid-huffed.

Jim poked the white horse Spock had previously tried to move. "Where were you going to move this guy?"

Spock told him, Jim moving the piece and inwardly cursing as it wasn't near the pawn he had hoped for. He quickly erased the mental game board strategy he had within his head, swiftly coming up with a new battle plan and wondering why his mental writing board looked so much like a football game plan. He moved his own, carefully following Spock's dictation in how to move the ivory pieces, and the game resumed.

* * *

><p>"I want you to come with me."<p>

McCoy groaned, rubbing his hand against his forehead. They had barely even sat down at the pizza joint, McCoy's choice as he had gotten out of shifts late and having skipped lunch. And breakfast, as a peppermint he had wheedled away from Jim hadn't really accounted for much. Drinks and dinner had been ordered, and already Jim was ordering him around like the Captain he was. Good thing this was shore leave, supposedly.

"Where now?" the doctor scoffed, trying to bite his tongue as he watched Jim pull a tin cup of crayons towards himself and a child's pre-set coloring mat.

Jim picked through the crayons, forgoing the Purple Mountain's Majesty and the Cottontail Pink for Supernova Red. "Canada." Jim answered cooly, slowly drawing in strands of hair on a hand-drawn template of a female body.

Doctor McCoy paused, "I take it you finally contacted those people I asked you to?"

Humming in the positive, Jim nodded and picked through the crayon cup like a skilled miner. "Yep, and they got back to me, too. I'm gonna head up there in a day or so, and I want you to come with me."

"You can't handle a handful of humans?" McCoy asked, rolling his eyes as Jim withdrew a green crayon and began to color some more.

"Of course I can." Jim huffed, fully concentrating on his picture. "I'm not a child."

McCoy snorted, muttering under his breath. "Course you're not." He sighed. "We've only got, what, five days left here ground-side?"

"I'm sure Starfleet Gen. can spare you for a day or two, it's not like you actually work there for a living." Jim pointed out with a gold crayon, quickly putting it back down on the paper. "Besides, you know what Spock'll need better than I do. You can explain what's happened better, make sure the place is okay, and you're a better judge at people than I am."

While true, McCoy couldn't shake away the looming feeling that Jim was buttering him up like one of his mama's biscuits. But, even if all the paid compliments were merely ploys to get him to come away to an icebox for a day or two, Jim did have a point. "You're certain that it'll only be a few days?"

"We can't spare anymore than two." Jim stated, using a black crayon for highlights and shadows. "Can't than M'Benga handle your shifts for that long?"

"There's other doctors there, ya know." McCoy scoffed. He crossed his arms over his chest, quickly leaning back and giving a nice, Southern smile to the waitress as she brought the two men (one man and one overgrown child, to be accurate) their drinks. McCoy knew he was defeated by the time she walked away. "Fine, I guess I could tag along."

"I know you would." Jim stated absent-mindedly, finishing with a final swipe of his crayon and turning the paper around. "So, what do ya think?"

Internally and externally rolling his eyes, McCoy leaned forward to look over the crayon drawing. Staring back with seductive eyes that would have made Marilyn Monroe envious, a green Orion pushed her hair back with her arms, thrusting forth her breasts and curling her legs to the side as she rested on what appeared to be a few strand of grass surrounded by a white background. Her stomach was completely bare, contrasted only by a golden bikini that could barely count as clothing. Not a bad drawing, if it hadn't been done on the back of a children's coloring menu.

"How the hell is that appropriate?" he pushed away the paper, ignoring Jim's beaming face as he too observed his masterpiece.

"It's just a foreign culture, Bones." Jim grinned, quickly flipping the paper over as he caught sight of the waitress returning with their meals. "Stop being such a xenophobe."

* * *

><p>Socks, more socks, briefs, long underwear, long-sleeved shirts, thick pants used by space explorers on cold planets, another pair of socks, a sweatshirt, and a heavy coat again used on cold planets.<p>

_That should be enough for a two-day trip to Canada, shouldn't it?_ Jim mused to himself. Remembering all those pictures of feet of snow buryng entire houses and air-cars, icicles hanging from roofs to ground and blocking doors shut, and air-car accidents caused by negative degree blizzards, he added another pair of socks and long-sleeved undershirt. That should be enough, now. Man, he sure hoped that Bones knew what to pack. He'd warn the guy, but didn't have it in him to tell him what to do.

Also, it'd be really funny watching Mr. Born-and-Bred-in-the-South freeze his nuts off in a T-shirt and jeans while frozen precipitation came down in fluffy torrents all around. Jim grinned at just the thought. But, he wouldn't be a complete ass about it, he'd lend him use of the sweater until they got back into heated living quarters.

A strong knock at the door caught Jim unaware for a moment, his thoughts of a shivering Bones burning up as he slowly meandered towards the door. Of course, the doctor would come by and see what he was packing to do the same.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'." Jim muttered as he reached for the keypad and took his time in typing in the unlock and open commands.

His surprise was palpable, and his manly squeak was audible, as not moderatly-tall Bones grumped in, but tall and pointed ears entered the humble abode.

"Ah, James," the Vulcan fondly greeted the human, "I was told I would find you here."

"Selek? Er, Spock?" Jim bumbled, the door closing after the elderly Vulcan entered. "What-what are you doing here? I thought you had that Romulan conference to go to. And who told you I was here?"

Spock Prime's eyes shone the same way young Spock's did when they were doing something not entirely Vulcan. "That is unimportant, James." Selek's mouth twitched lightly at Jim's look of hesitance. "And my presence on Romulan is not expected for a few weeks more."

Jim watched as the older Vulcan lifted an eyebrow at the giant mounds of winter clothing covering the bed. Jim also noticed that he had forgotten to pack snowpants. At Selek's continued confusion, Jim started to clarify. "Bones and I are heading up to Canada for a few days. To meet with your... his mother's side of the family."

Selek's mouth twitched as Jim stumbled over pronouns, as he normally did during speaking about his counterpart with the other counterpart. "I see. You are quite certain you need so much clothing for so short a trip?"

"You didn't see those pictures." Jim stated. "Canada makes Seward's Planet look like Risa during the summer months."

Selek only lifted an eyebrow incredulously, giving the industrial-strength socks a wary glance and the four pairs of long-johns a scrutenous eye. "Fascinating." he murmured, remembering his first trip to Canada. He had been very young, and it had not been to visit relatives as his father business took them to the topmost part of the Americas. He also remembered the weather, but wisely remained silent. "I assume that you will be departing soon?"

"Tomorrow, actually." Jim agreed. He withdrew his suitcase from the corner of the room, containing all of his regular clothes and toiletries, and dumped them on the opposite side of the bed. There they would remain until he returned from mini-Antarctica. "So, what brings you to Earth? Some delegation meeting?"

"Simply because one is an Ambassador does not mean that they must constantly work, or travel for work." Selek stated. "Even if Sarek is a poor example. I have come to visit my counterpart."

A little piece of Jim, no matter how many times he reminded himself that the two had met and spoken and frequently spoke, a little piece if him always flinched at the thought of Spock and Spock together. He had to constantly remind himself that no time-ending paradox would instantaneously break out and end all life as they knew it if Time-Traveling, Universe-Jumping Spock had tea time with Regular Spock. "Really?"

"I regret that I cannot stay long, however." Spock Prime continued. "I may even depart before your return from Canada."

Jim's shoulder slumped, hands stilling from where he was balling up a shirt. "Really? I was kinda hoping the three of us could talk and finally figure out what the heck the both of you want to be called. I mean, my Spock doesn't like it when I call him Spock Two-Point-Oh, and Young Spock/ Old Spock sounds like some kind of ancient Dr. Seuss book."

A grey eyebrow lifted in confusion, lowering again instead of asking for further clarification. "Perhaps there will be time for us to discuss names and pronouns." the elder Vulcan's eyes shone with amusement. "I am not certain how much time I will be able to spend here, but I shall try my best."

Jim's entire face lit up as sunny as the shade of his hair. "Thanks, Bones and I shouldn't be gone more than two days, tops. I'm kind of hoping one, but..." Jim shrugged, eyeing the contents of his bag. It was a rather jumbled mess, nothing folded and instead balled up or rolled together. He hummed to himself, turning towards the older Vulcan. "Do you think I'll need a scarf and gloves? Or mittens? Which are warmer?"

"Mittens." Selek answered reflexively. "They hold the heat given off by the hands far better than gloves." He paused, warily looking over Jim's messy bag and reminding himself that, as much as he wished, this was not his Jim. He could not simply rummage through his suitcase and neatly fold every article of clothing in a logical way.

Nodding in agreement, Jim slapped the top shut and zippered the side. "I'll see if Bones has any, I've only got a pair of work gloves back on the ship."

With age came wisdom, and Selek was old enough to know better than to open his mouth and deter the young Captain from his clothing arrangements. Jim learned best by trial and error, and mainly the later than the former. Silently drawing away from his thoughts, Selek turned back towards Jim, who was rambling on as he dropped his packed bag by the door.

"Have you eaten yet? I've got some leftover pizza from earlier I can heat up."

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes - Someone out there is going to have read the Star Trek: Voyage Home novel (that I haven't read) and claim that Spock got drunk off of a peppermint candy. I decided to stick with cocoa as an alcohol toxin for Vulcans, as we humans use sugar in great quantities in everything, so poor Spock would either be constantly drunk or constantly hung-over (Not sure which one, as it can't really be tested.). It's easier to avoid cocoa powderflavoring than it is to avoid sugar. Not sure how accurate that is, but that's what I'm sticking with. :)

Also, peppermint is good for nausea, so it just worked that way, too.

I apologize that I was late, again with the chapter. It hasn't been a very good week. Over-stimuli headaches, 3 cluster migraines, assholes, more assholes, errands, even more assholes, I haven't really written much in here. The good news is that my biological grandmother on my father's side has cancelled Christmas! At least on that quarter of the family. Also, the Theory of Transfer is my favorite theory of all. I had a little bit of a grin on my face as I finally managed to write it in a story... That's rather sad, actually, now that I think about it...

I just got my first job! It shouldn't take away from any of my writing, being as the job is writing to begin with. I now freelance for our local newspaper. :D

In closing, I would like to leave you with my own rendition on an old classic that shall forever ruin the book _One Fish, Two Fish_ by Dr. Seuss.

"One Spock, two Spocks,

Old Spock, new Spocks.

This one drives _Galileo_ shuttle-cars,

And this one lives amongst the stars."

On that bombshell, I wish you all a lovely morning/noon/afternoon/evening/night/twilight. I own nothing, and this is self-beta'd.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

><p><strong>For your reading pleasure. In this, if Spock Young and Spock Old are in the same room, Young Spock will always be refered to as Spock and Old Spock will be called a myriad of names such as Selek, Old Spock, Spock Prime (etc.) but never just 'Spock'. <strong>

* * *

><p>It was very warm in the shuttle-port's transporter bay. No bigger than an ancient airport terminal, and serving the same purpose, Jim tugged at his wraps and tried not to think about the heat. Heavy snow boots, thick pants, undershirts, underclothes, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater, and a heavy winter coat were all topped off with a red hat and scarf and mittens, each bearing a golden Starfleet insignia on some part of them. The final three items had been purchased at a gift shop at the shuttle-port as a call to Bones for them had been meet with much swearing.<p>

_How was I supposed to know he was sleeping?_ Jim groused to himself, ignoring the wet tickle of warm sweat rolling down his neck and back as he shifted in his bundles. _Who the hell goes to bed at six o'clock?_

His eyes swept across the terminal's occupants, searching for a newcomer as bundled up as he was. Jim hadn't warned him against the fridgid cold they were about to endure, having had no time to offer the kind words of advice amidst a torrent of "Damn you" and "Fuck off." God, it really was hot in here. _Maybe I don't need all of it on right now..._

But, before he could peel the red mittens away from his sweaty hands, his Bones sense kicked in. A baby, once calm and sleeping contentedly in its mothers arms, had begun to cry for no apparent reason. A dog once leading a blind man whimpered and cowered and growled simultaneously, and the sky seemed to darken a few shades in preparation of Mr. Grumpy himself. Jim smirked to himself as he caught sight of the middle aged man, scowling as he looked up towards the terminals letters and numbers. He wore nothing but a simple black t-shirt, faded to a charcoal grey, and an equally faded pair of blue jeans. Over his shoulder was a military duffel bag. McCoy was clean, brown hair smoothed back and that five o'clock shadow the seemed to linger past six over the bottom half of his face had been smoothed off with liberal doses of beard suppressed. A sunburnt red replaced the scruffy pseudo-beard, irritated either from being unused to the strong suppressant or too much of the stuff.

The irritation beaming off the man like a visible aura quickly turned to annoyance as he caught sight of the correct terminal, and, in turn, Jim. "God, man, you couldn't even tell me which stop you were at?"

"I was going to." Jim shrugged, the weatherproof fabric covering his body rustling loudly. He eyed Bones nervously. He really was dressed too little for such a cold part of the globe. "You do know we're going to Canada, right?"

Bones plopped himself heavily in the emptied chair beside Jim, Jim's few days luggage pushed carelessly to the floor. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

Jim cocked his head, barely moving as many layers seemed to resist human muscles. Before he could answer, an overhead comm. system binged, calling out numbers to the transporters. Bones with his duffel bag, the strap having never left his shoulder, stood up and began to walk away. Jim scrambled from his seat, sense of equilibrium and gravity heavily off as he nearly toppled to the floor in a mad grab for the handle of his suitcase. His fingers, bound together beneath heavy red fabric, did little to push a hat of the same material out of his eyes, and he trotted after his supposed friend.

He barely slid into the transporter area before the doors closed, singling out McCoy and hissing, "You really are a jerk."

A rare and rather creepy smile turned up McCoy's thin, pink lips. "Yeah." he agreed with a single, breathy laugh. "I am."

Jim was cut off again as the transporter hummed alive, noisily chugging like a particular Blue Box from an old television show. The dingy, public transporter pad faded from existence, and Jim forced his eyes shut during cellular refusion against the icy blast surely awaiting them. He didn't move, waiting for a gust of wind to blow him away. Resisting the urge to move and pull up his scarf, he opened his eyes.

And froze.

Everything, every front yard and backyard, every tree and garden, were varying shades of _green_. Flowers of all sorts, imported and natural, bloomed in window boxes and around the doorsteps of certain homes. Robins and cardinals and blue jays and chickadees called out in their warbling songs. There wasn't even a thickly downed Canada goose waddling about a semi-frozen pond to make Jim feel like less like an idiot.

He scowled, ripping the hat from his head and tearing the mittens from his hands. "They beamed us to the wrong fricking part of the continent." he growled. "The one time we don't use Scotty or the _Enterprise_ to get where we want, everything gets screwed up."

McCoy was practically beaming, basking in the warm sunshine and near cloudless sky. The few spotty clouds just had to be wispy cirrus, not even a cumulonimbus cloud promising snow or freezing rain in the near future. "Jim, I don't know what the hell kinda shitty research you did, but _I _looked up the weather for this week. Sunny and seventy-five today, lookin' at a near eighty tomorrow and sun-shiney all the week long."

Kirk tried to cross his arms over his chest, right over left and then left over right, but found them back by his sides and slightly up no matter what he did. He growled under his breath, _Asshole._ "How much room do you got in your bag?"

Shrugging, the bag lifting easily with the little bit of light clothing it contain, McCoy hummed in consideration. "Not sure. How many layers do ya got on under that parka?"

Jim huffed, refraining from rubbing the back of his neck. He wouldn't be able to reach it, anyways. "I dunno..." he reluctantly admitted, muttering under his breath. "I lost count after the third."

"Sweet Mother of God." McCoy rolled his eyes. "Start strippin' before you give yourself heat stroke."

Jim wasn't sure what was more embarrassing, the fact that he was shedding down to his long underwear in the middle of a partially enclosed transporter pad, or the fact that McCoy folded the ditched clothing much better than he did.

* * *

><p>The world surely must be ending. Spock and Spock were sitting in the same room, quietly sipping paper cups of tea dispensed from a hospital replicator. Wrinkled hands were wrapped around the brown and blue dispensable cup of a regular Earl Grey blend, while smother yet more awkwardly placed fingers tried to grasp and absorb the warmth of peppermint tea.<p>

It was difficult to forget the first time Jim had discovered that Spock and Spock knew one another, and spoke together quite frequently. It had been a quiet evening aboard the starship _Enterprise_, another planet saved, another civilization signed up with the Federation, and one exhausted crew. When Jim was tired, he seemed to push aside all social normality of the human and Vulcan culture, and entered Spock's living quarters through the fresher without any kind of warning. He was also prone to barging in during self-proclaimed emergencies _("Spock, I can't find my shampoo! Can I borrow yours, or will it make my hair look like yours?")_, times of extreme and most trying boredom, and any other time of the day Jim just wanted company or to talk. He also came in at random times, Spock or no Spock, to borrow or return items he had borrowed without permission. If a stylus or PADD or pair of socks was missing from the meticulous draws, Spock would merely return the barging-in favor and take his stuff right back.

But, that evening, there had been no borrowing or returning. Jim, tired and his feet sore, had wandered into the Vulcan's warm, incense tangy bedroom and plopped himself on the bed covered in a thick deep red and black blanket, no questions asked. Spock, seated at the desk console, had merely turned in the seat with no surprise or chagrin to speak of.

"_Watcha doin'?" Jim asked, slowly laying himself prostrate across the bunk. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply the warmth and no humidity and burning spices filling the air like a breeze of its own._

_The Captain's eyes popped open at Spock's reply. "I am placing a call to New Vulcan."_

_Tired or not, Jim quickly sat back up. "Oh, sorry. I probably shouldn't barge in on you like that. I could have interrupted your conversation, or seen you naked or something like that."_

_A black eyebrow lifted, scandalized at the thought of being caught with his trousers down in his own _sanctus sanctorum_. Jim wondered if Vulcans could even get naked. Maybe they materialized their clothes on and off their bodies like mini transporters. But, would that wouldn't explain how little Vulcans were made. Anatomy and reproduction, including xeno-reproduction, had been one of the few classes Jim had given his full attention to._

_"You needn't leave." Spock stated, eyes tracking the human as he made to rise and leave. "The Councilman speaks of you often."_

_"Councilman?" Jim's head cocked to the side like a blonde cocker spaniel. What Vulcan Councilor did he know, or vice-versa? _

_Spock, either unconcerned with Jim's confusion or simply oblivious, continued to speak. "I am certain he would be quite pleased to speak with you again."_

_Now Jim was feeling even stupider. He'd obviously spoken with the guy before, he just couldn't pin a rank to a face. A name would certainly be helpful, but Spock was fiddling with the subspace frequency, and Jim really didn't want to look like an ignorant fool in front of Mr. Eidetic-Memory. Instead of asking for further clarification, Jim nodded his head and leaned over the chair to see the screen._

_"Sure, I'll stick around."_

_A minute and a half later, snowflake static replaced a black screen before clearing up to reveal a wrinkled face. Spock found himself given whiplash and pinned to the floor, face rubbing against the carpet and Jim pressing his head down, nearly screaming._

_"Don't look, don't look at the screen! Oh, God-oh, God-"_

It had taken five minutes for Selek to calm Jim down, explaining in a near whisper as Jim feared Young Spock even hearing Old Spock's voice would cause catastrophic events, that no time-ending paradox would begin. No apocalyptic singularity immediately combusted all the known galaxy, and then some, even as Spock had risen and straightened himself up, rug-burn aside.

Spock sipped the last of his mint tea from the thin cup, the warmth once curling about his fingers consumed. Selek's old yet bright eyes looked about the room, landing on checks of red and black. Eyes a soft milk-chocolate brightened yet more, wrinkled creases about his temples scrunching lightly in reminisce and nostalgia.

"You play chess with James?" Selek asked warmly, in contrast to the cooling tea in his lap.

While it was worded and asked in an interrogatory, question form, Spock could not help but feel that it was more of a comment or implication, lacking any kind of question or confusion. "Yes." he answered simply. "He introduced the game only yesterday."

Selek's eyes remained on the board a moment longer, clinging to some distant memory of a galaxy, far, far away and a very dear friend left somewhere within the stretch of time and distance. "My Jim and I often played, from the first day of our very first mission." His eyes twinkled faintly. "Our first game, and, as reluctant as I am to admit, most of our games resulted in my checkmate and Jim's triumph."

"I have experienced such with my own Jim." Spock sniffed lightly. His own eyes, oddly a darker brown than his older counterparts, for explainable reasons that Spock Prime would not explain, shifted towards the set and untouched board. "Was your own game set similar to ours?"

The wrinkled lines around Selek's lips smoothed out as the corners twitched. "No, our own board contained multiple tiers and more intricate rules. Perhaps, if there is time before the _Enterprise's_ departure, I will introduce you and James to a tri-deimentinal chess board."

A thin, black eyebrow slid up. "I have not seen a three-tiered chess board."

"I have." Selek reinstated. "Both in my own timeline and yours. The rules are rather similar once the concept is understood." He set aside his now completely cold cup, clasping his worn, callused hands in his lap. He observed his young other-self, the thinness of his face and bared arms, the lower half of him seated but tucked beneath a thick hospital blanket. The quiet demeanor that, while not uncommon in either Spock-self, seemed more exaggerated in the younger half-Vulcan. Selek sighed audibly. "There is little advice I can give you, Spock."

The black head, an oddly cropped chunk of hair just noticable if one stared long enough, started from its intense meditation on a patch of sunlight before ducking back down. "I have not asked for any council."

"Perhaps not out loud." Selek stated pointedly, refolding his hands. "Spock, I have no empathy for your situation. I have not experienced circumstances similar to it in my lifetime, and have little to say to guide you. This path you have been forced on is uncharted, and I regret there is nothing I can say or do to assist."

"You can keep in contact with Jim." Spock said, lifting his head and meeting almost equally brown eyes mere shades off colour. "Of what I have heard of your Jim Kirk, he benefited greatly from having a Vulcan on the bridge. Now that there isn't one..."

"You fear for his safety." Old Spock's mouth twitched, in either amusement or sympathy Spock couldn't tell. "It was not merely any Vulcan on the Bridge that kept him in line."

Spock's thumbs rubbed lightly together. "All the more reason for concern."

"I promise, I will keep in contact with James." Selek said kindly. "And so shall you." It was not so much a friendly comment as it was an Elder's command.

Nodding his head, Spock agreed whole-heartedly. "Indeed."

A comfortable silence fell between the two, like one alone with someone very close and simply content to listen to the whirl of their own thoughts. Swooping, diving thoughts that bounced from one idea to the next with flea-like bounds. The chances that both were thinking and following the same thought patterns was as astronomical as another Spock spontaneously appearing in the middle of the room. Selek proved the point by speaking, the younger Spock's head starting up.

"While it is merely the two of us," he started, "perhaps we should use this excess time to figure out which names and pronouns are best used between us."

Blinking once, there was no surprise on the young Vulcan's face. "Jim has pestered you about the same?"

"Frequently." Selek stated.

Spock hummed to himself. "I was under the assumption that Jim desired to speak with us on the subject. Would it not be more logical to wait for his return, so that we might include his input?"

"No." Selek said simply.

Another eyebrow was given his counterpart-self, confusion evident in the dark brown eyes. "For what reasons?"

"Do not question your elders, youngling." Selek ordered, a certain snap in his voice lacking and a small smile in his eyes removing any sting in the comment.

Sufficiently subdued, Spock lay back against the pillows behind him, giving a small nod of obedience.

* * *

><p>Just as Canada had not been the barren, snowy wasteland, instead revealing itself a rather luscious green one imagines after a heavy storm upon farmland, cleaning the air and the ground and rejuvenating plant and animal life, Jim Kirk did not look like the young, tough Captain he was. Luckily, somewhere within his bumbling brain, something had compelled him to pack a pair of jeans. He wore those now.<p>

Sadly, he didn't have a single shirt that wasn't long-sleeved or made of thick, warm, sweater material. Instead, he was forced to wear one of McCoy's shirt, i.e, he whined his usual way until he received a nice, light T-shirt. While plain and clean and nicely worn down to that cottony comfort that only came with repeated wears, it was a little big in the arms. And, if he tried to reach above his head, his stomach showed. While toned, baring his abdominals and wearing baggy clothing didn't exactly scream the order-demanding, strong Captain he had been going for.

But, as McCoy had pointed out, neither had six layers of clothing and a heavy parka proved his toughness.

A mode of transportation was easily arranged. Jim's fantasies of snow-mobiles and dog-sleds had been crushed in lieu of your average aircar taxicab. It was the normal, dull yellow with four doors and a dirty, bullet-proof plastic separating screen. A scent permeating from the front of the cab leaked into the back, reeking of onions and Canadian Bacon. The cabbie owned a typical lower eastern-Canadian accent, which meant he really didn't have much of one at all other than the occasional "Eh," lacing his speech.

It was a remarkably clean city, closer to a suburbanite village than smack in the middle of Toronto. The moderately large city of Fort Erie, connecting to some little dumpy city in the States by the Peace Bridge, was only an hour or two away by 'car. Had there been time, Jim would have loved to see the connecting bridge all lit up for the night. Maybe he and Bones could have caught a hockey game from a place that actually had snow in the winter months. Hockey was a much better sport than football, especially with the addition of fistfights.

There was no time for leisure, however, and Jim's stomach tightened in knots the moment they turned down the final street. It was a nearly empty road, dotted sparsely with houses and a small plot of land no larger than an acre or two between them. A community park was just down the road, barking dogs and squealing children faintly heard if the warm breeze blew right. The red stop sign at the end of the road, Jim couldn't help but notice, was written in first English and then French despite the closeness to the States.

The cab slowed down to a rolling stop, just before a medium-sized blue house. Grass, neatly cropped and treated, grew in a deep shade of dark green. Equally green bushes as neatly trimmed as the grass guarded the two-story house. No flowers bloomed in the front yard, too treated like the rest of the surrounding yards to allow so much as one dandelion a chance to take root and seed, but Kirk caught sight of a small vegetable garden in the backyard as he payed the cabbie and Bones grabbed the bags from the trunk. At least Spock would get fresh vegetables, not transported from the grocery story or reconstructed by a replicator.

The knot in the pit of his stomach tightened like a noose, his throat oddly tight as he accepted the handle of his pull-along case. Two cars were parked in the drive-way, the house was neat and clean, and appeared to keep up with the Joneses in every way possible. So what was with the sudden apprehension?

He looked towards McCoy for comfort, shocked yet unsurprised to receive nothing but a grizzled grunt and a downshift of haunted eyes. It wasn't as if they were going to Alcatraz to pick out the nicest cell available in the museum penitentiary. This was a nice, middle class family with all the comforts of a suburbanite home.

But, to two explorers always prepared for the worst, nothing could be more frightening than normal, every-day, mediocrity.

Jim took a careful breath, shifted his sweaty palms against the handle of his luggage, and stretched out a hand to ring the doorbell.

_Bzzz!_

* * *

><p>There had been few conversation he had participated in that he would call <em>pleasant<em>. Talking with his mother had never been a bore nor a burden, but there were few times where they simply talked to listen to the other speak. There was always some interior motive, such as a punishment or a change or a problem that needed straightening out. Same with his father, but he couldn't recall one talking to that had been nice between the two of them.

Most of the pleasant conversation he had ever partaken in were with Jim over a game of chess, or a lunch table, or late into the night in some odd alien venue in which they were stuck. Even the most dire of circumstances, blizzards and acid rains and firefights forcing them to take cover until this and that could be worked out and beam-out was an option, talking in whispers so as to not draw an enemy or shouting above the scream of the wind had almost always contained something jovial or contenting.

Talking with Selek , however, was always an odd situation. Not merely because it was, in essence, himself, but because there was always something melancholy or sobering in the way they spoke with each other. The simplest of things - the way Jim smiled after a harrowing experience or the friendly slaps he gave to anyone and everyone - seemed to haunt the corners of the old Vulcan's eyes, even if an unVulcan smile ghosted his lips.

There was so much Spock wanted to ask him, about his mother and how the planet Vulcan continued on in the other timeline. He wanted to ask if he was very unlike himself, the other self, as much as Jim was different from James T. Kirk of the alternate universe. James had known his father there; Jim's father had gone twenty-third century kamikaze to save his wife and newborn son. Spock Prime had known his mother well into his later years, experiencing her death of natural causes but not being there to witness it.

For so many questions asked or begging to be asked, few were answered. Not much could be, not without some residual harm to the receiver of the truth. Time, while fragile, was not as tricky as science-fiction novels and holo-vision shows made it out to be. All of its wibbly-wobbly components worked together like a clock, one that could be moved both forwards and backwards. As time moved, things changed, both forwards and backwards. That was about as tricky as time got.

Of course, while the Nero-_Nerada_ incident was proof of just how fragile time was and how much history could be screwed up, people and things could still adapt. Jim, even with the loss of his father, the verbal abuse of his step-father, and the abandonment of his mother, had still joined Starfleet. Just, not with his father's footsteps to gently guide him as James Prime's had.

All those questions Spock had asked were turned away, mainly, with a saddened look and sorrowful, pitying eyes. It was not the answer that would harm history and timelines, but mentally and emotionally scar the one asking worse than the loss of the loved one itself. The gnawing longing behind the questions of "Did I know my mother well?" and "What was she like as she got older?" would only increase the pain felt, knowing that all of it could have been avoided.

Sometimes, it was better to keep the truth than to tell it and cause more trouble than a lie would have.

Selek cast a glance towards the drapes just pulled back enough to reveal the red, setting sun burning furiously behind a cityscape of buildings. He unclasped his hands, cleaning away the paper teacups, the insides stained with the absorbed drink and dyed brown in splotches.

"It has been pleasant conversing with you, Youngling." Selek said honestly, the term of endearment as easy to say as a nickname soon to become stuck.

"And with you." Spock returned politely. "I am grateful for your company."

Selek returned the eyebrow he had been the receiving end of many times that day. "For talking to yourself?"

Before Spock - the young one - could retaliate, a doctor's alerting knock sounded at the door followed by the typing of an unlock dark-skinned, curly-haired, friendly Doctor M'Benga entered the room, quickly silencing both Vulcans.

"Well, Spock," the doctor started as he strode into the room, one hand in his pocket and the other hand holding a PADD up to his face, "looks like it's time for another round of hypos. I'm certain that you'd pleased to know that Doctor McCoy left a very... detailed checklist for me to follow." At the end of the biobed, he stopped, suddenly realizing Spock wasn't the only person in the room. His eyes widened, a nervous, awed stammer tieing his tongue. "A-Ambasader Selek, sir."

The noticed Vulcan rose to his feet, elegantly crossing his arms behind his back and the long, traditional robe about his body falling creaseless the length of his height. "Dr. M'Benga, I presume?"

"Yes." the curly-haired doctor nodded, pleased and surprised. "How did you know?"

Selek paused, sparing only the briefest of knowing glances towards his counterpart. "Spock had mentioned you during one of our conversations today."

Geoffrey M'Benga couldn't have looked more proud if Doctor McCoy had come back from Canada and complimented him personally. The pride swelling his chest was squished down,however; a medical professionalism replacing it quickly. "I'm sorry to say, Ambassador, but visiting hours are just about up. Maybe about five minutes more before they close down for the night."

"I was just leaving." Selek assured him, watching warily as M'Benga nodded and set about preparing multiple hypos of antibacterials, antibiotics, pain killers, and probably other things not very pleasant to dwell on. The first one was taken up just as he was heading towards the door, the familiar hiss sending a suppressed shiver up his spinal column and an uneasy feeling to settle in his stomach. He paused, hand resting on the keypad of the door, and turned. "Spock, I suggest lemon."

Head turned away from the doctor and his duties, Spock focused entirely on the Elder. "Pardon?"

"Earlier today, when I asked your preference to tea." Selek explained. "You asked for peppermint. I can assure you, lemon will have a much longer lasting effect."

A third hypospray hissed, nearly causing both Spocks to flinch. "I understand. Thank you."

M'Benga lifted the fourth and final hypospray, gently pressing it to the pale, bare arm just as the door closed behind the Ambassador. He shook his head, sending the 'sprays down a chute for recycling. "I swear, I've seen him before?"

Blinking in mock confusion, Spock tilted his head. "Whom do you speak of?"

"The Ambassador Selek. He just seems so... familiar, somehow." M'Benga rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head before Spock could reply, dismissing the thought. "I've probably just seen him on the holovision somewhere."

"Probably." Spock agreed quietly, reluctantly accepting the help of lying down as the doctor lowered the bed and dimmed the lights. It was still daylight, probably around six o'clock if Spock cared to look at the clock. He didn't, nor was he tired. He set aside his glasses on the bedside table, looked up at the ceiling, and wondered what the time it was in Canada.

* * *

><p><span>Author's Note - I would like to thank Dunzydad on KS-archive(apologies if I misspelled that)for pointing out that Spock would most likely be taking occupational therapy, not physical therapy. Being as I have already made the mistake, and this story is on both Fanfiction dot net and KS-Archive, and is a major pain in the neck to correct, the error will have to remain as is for the sake of both sides.<span>

Maybe we could all pretend that the two were combined in the 22 and a half century? No? I didn't think so...

For once I am not ashamed of my references in my story. No Monty Python this time, but I do not own the Blue Box mentioned above somewhere in those rambling words. The TARDIS is owned by the Doctor, and the Doctor (Who) is owned by BBC.

I know that several stories I've seen show Spock and Spock Prime as 'tolerable' to one another, Spock Prime more accepting while Young Spock is more headstrong and stubborn and protective. I've never really thought that way. After watching the end interactions of ST-'09, Spock took the advice of... himself. He wouldn't listen to his father in the VSA, he didn't listen very well to Kirk at the beginning, but he immediately took into consideration Selek's words. And then, in ST-ID, he called himself up for advice, implying to me that he wasn't ashamed of calling himself for information and had done it before (duh, as he knew the number). Spock, both of them, are pretty head-strong and self-sufficient, seldom going to others for help. It always struck me as odd that he'd go to an outuer source for help so willingly, even if that outer source was himself.

I apologize for the lateness. My job is picking up, if you've watched the weather or the news I live close to the South Buffalo snowstorm Winterstorm:Knife that just missed us. I've been doing some interviews and writing for that. And, as an amateur turkey-farmer, it's slaughtering day tomorrow.

I swear, we will meet the Grayson family next chapter, I just need to finish plotting out their character traits and names. As Scotty would plead, "Dinna kill the lass, she's givin ye all she's got!"


End file.
